Pane, Shutter, Glass
by dismaynight
Summary: The effigy of the killer is in her work, and the work is the very thing that separates them. / Sherlock, OC, and mystery.
1. Prologue

_"You had  
>never been more beautiful, all angles<br>like panes, shutters, glass."_

-  
>"A Quiet Moment" by Heather Bell<em><br>_

* * *

><p><em>The cleanup is always the hardest part<em>, a woman thought. She looked around at the flat, noting every bit of soiled carpet, tipped cups, broken glass, and other detritus with a tired feeling. She wasn't usually the one to do cleanup - most of the time it wasn't even necessary - so, needless to say, she was not looking forward to the job. She looked over her main work one last time, though, and found comfort in its elegance and execution. At least she'd gotten that much perfect, so she'd get paid where she was well deserved.

Her phone vibrated in her pocket, long, drawn out durations that signaled a call rather than the text that she would have much preferred. She hated talking while on a job - unless, of course, it was to have a little fun with someone.

"Hello?" she answered.

"Are you done yet?" said the familiar voice on the other end, distinctly boring. "We're swamped, you know."

"Yes, I'm done," she huffed, kicking an empty red cup across the room. "Well, almost."

"Don't be faffing around, darling - you're all I've got tonight," the man said sternly.

"It's not like I decided to do cleanup," she retorted. "You know that takes a while."

"I'll make an exception today, then."

"What do you mean, you'll 'make an exception'? The cleanup's in the job description this time, so I've got to do it, or the client will kill me."

"Cleanup was extra. The client said he didn't care, just that cleanup would be easier on him. Secrecy and alibis and all that."

She nearly threw the phone at the wall in exasperation. "You know I could have been caught by now, right? Screw _this_." So saying, she threw the filthy butter knife she'd been holding down at the mangled body, gathered her KA-BAR and her switchblade, and left the flat through the fire escape. It was midnight and the neighborhood was quiet, so thankfully no extra measures needed to be taken tonight.

"Tell me you're coming back now. I don't have the time to be waiting for you to finish up," said the man on the line.

"Yes, I'm coming back, Val," she said shortly, and then ended the call and shoved the phone back in her pocket. She put the KA-BAR back inside her leather jacket and the switchblade in her other jeans pocket once they were both wiped off. The alleyway opened up to the dark Surrey street where her chaperoned car lie in wait for her. The car started as she approached, and the doors unlocked as she reached for the handle to the backseat.

"How was it, ma'am?" asked the driver, eyeing her through the rearview mirror.

"Nothing special," she told him distantly. "'Nother college kid too deep in conspiracy and too drunk to keep his mouth shut. I reckon his confidant will be on the list for next week." She watched his fingers tap on the steering wheel. "…Home, if you will. I'm… not in the mood for another job tonight."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **The poem that I got this title from, quoted at the beginning of the chapter, is the beautiful work of Heather Bell. I do not own it, but I receive her permission to use it. queenhrosie . deviantart . com is her page (no spaces.) Please check her out! You will not regret it, I promise.

Reviews are much appreciated and highly encouraged.


	2. Criminal, Typical

Shoes skid on wet pavement and puffs of cold air emitted from the two standing figures, small translucent mushroom clouds in a dark London street. The criminal had seemed to make a snap decision before he ran, and Sherlock Holmes knew what it was: _fight or flight? _At least this criminal was smart, he thought - fighting would have been a very bad choice, considering that John Watson had been running up to them from twenty feet away. Flight was easier for the criminal, though harder for the chasers. But Sherlock ran swiftly after him, trusting that John would catch up eventually.

The criminal turned off of the busy street into an alleyway, probably thinking he could lose the pale man on his tail. But Sherlock was as fast, if not faster, as any criminal, and he could always figure out where they would go. The only thing different about this criminal was that he was unarmed, and his pockets were lined with illegal substances.

The criminal still had them running through a network of alleyways, and Sherlock noticed the man was beginning to panic - perhaps he had realized that he wouldn't escape. He was looking every which way, turning his torso every now and then, tripping over his own feet. Suddenly he put his head down and ran right, into another alley. Sherlock followed him, then stopped.

It was unexpected, to say the least. Sherlock, of course, was a little more used to having guns trained on him than most people, so he supposed that might have been an understatement in some cases. The only thing that surprised about it, though, was that he had been wrong about the criminal being unarmed. The man was now at the dead-end of the alley he had chosen, and was pointing his pistol at Sherlock's chest.

Theoretically, Sherlock could dive behind the skip five feet forward and to the right, but if the armed man had good aim, he'd be in trouble. The same type of problem would apply to running out of the alley or charging the man to possibly catch him off guard (unlikely.) Sherlock could also try to reason with him - bribe him, talk him down, bargain with him - but he wasn't good at that sort of thing. That was more John's area.

_Speaking of John,_ thought Sherlock, putting his hands up, _where in the world -_

The night exploded with sound. He watched as a bit of blood spurted from the criminal's shoulder, on the same side that had held the gun, and the man fell to his knees with a shout of pain. Sherlock turned around, and there was John.

"Ah, John," said the taller man. "You're late."

John gave him a look, letting his left hand fall back down to his side. "Lucky I'm even here, don't you think?" he said, a little incredulous of the situation. "What would you have done if I hadn't of been right behind you?"

Sherlock chose not to pay attention, but instead to check his surroundings and ensure that he knew where they were.

John rolled his eyes at the detective and huffed. "Can we call the police now?"

"Yes, yes." Sherlock waved him away, backing up as his eyes glued themselves to a fifth-story window. The curtains were checkered green, and stood out from the rest of the windows on the building - from the windows in the whole area, even. Unmistakable. "That's the room up there," he muttered.

John had his phone out and was waiting for the other end to pick up. He regarded Sherlock's observations with a quick glance, then turned away as a woman's voice answered. "Yes, my colleague and I have just caught a criminal… The one who's been breaking into families' homes for their, uh, medications and such… Yes…"

"That's the room where he bludgeoned the teenager for his pain pills," Sherlock continued, brow furrowing and eyes darting between the particular window and the weak criminal down the way. "Why run to this alleyway? Coincidence? No. No, there's a reason, that's why he didn't shoot me immediately."

"Yes, we're fine. All under control… Right, thanks," John finished and hung up, then turned back around. Sherlock was no longer there. He looked around, panicked at first - _what's he done now? _- before he spotted him climbing up a fire escape. "Wha- where are you going?"

"There's someone up there that he was trying to get to," Sherlock threw over his shoulder as he went up as quick as he could. He had to catch the person before they were gone, but he feared it might already be too late. They would have heard the gunshot, after all.

"Sherlock!" shouted John, but he didn't know quite why he felt the need to do it. He'd have to stay on the ground and keep an eye on the thief until the police showed up. _Could be hours,_ he thought bitterly.

It only took a little over five minutes for Sherlock to reach the ground again, at which point sirens could be heard in the distance. He dropped from the bottom of the fire escape to the ground, face hard and brows still furrowed.

"Well?" John inquired.

"They'd already gone," he replied, shoving his hands in his pockets for warmth. Their breaths were still visible.

"Any idea where they went?"

"Haven't a clue."

John chuckled as the first few cops arrived, assessed the two flat mates, and then rushed by to retrieve the criminal. "That's a first."

Sherlock shot him a look, but smirked at John's smiling face. "…Hungry?"

"Mocha coffee, extra espresso, please," said the woman to the barista. "And large." She pulled out her wallet from her bag and handed over the exact amount once the girl had rung her up.

"I'll be right on it," the girl said cheerily, then turned to make the coffee.

The woman leaned on her other leg and stuck a hand in her pocket, using this time to simply people-watch. There was a nerdy couple in the corner chatting about their university classes, a skinny teenage girl next to the window who seemed to have been stood up for a date, and a boy with black-rimmed glasses and a biker's jacket who was eyeing the woman up when he thought she didn't notice. She sighed. Not the most interesting crowd today.

Her left hand tightened on the strap of her bag. At least the café wasn't crowded, which meant less chance of getting interrupted (unless the jacket-boy worked up the gall to do so.)

"Here you are," the barista said, handing her her coffee. She took it gladly. "Have a nice day!"

She nodded in response, then retreated to the corner farthest from the door, next to a large window, and sat with her back to the wall. The coffee burned her tongue sweetly as she sipped it, and woke her up almost immediately. For a moment she just relaxed, letting the hot cup warm her hands, before she dug out her laptop from inside her bag and set it up.

She took another sip as her password registered. As soon as everything had loaded, a chat box popped up on the screen.

_xvalkyrieburns: So you're awake now._

She glanced around the café out of habit, making sure that nobody was paying too much attention to her, before she IM'ed back.

_x2081LIA: Yes. How has your day been? _

While she waited for a response, she opened up Word and began to type up her accounting report. It was two lines long when the IM tab began to blink.

_xvalkyrieburns: I'm not in the mood, darling. We're way understaffed and swimming in jobs that need doing. Come to the office, now._

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes, and looked up instead. Jacket-boy was staring at her intently, and when he noticed her looking his way, he gave her a nod and a devious look. She looked away and began typing again.

_x2081LIA: I'm typing up an AR. I'll go to work when I'm done, alright?_

She'd typed up another two lines before a shadow filled her peripheral vision. She snapped her eyes upward. There stood jacket-boy, who leaned on her table with one arm as she sipped her coffee pointedly.

"Hey," he said, charming. "You look lonely. Mind if I join you?"

"I should look _busy_ to you," she retorted, "not lonely. And yes, I mind."

Her IM tab blinked as the boy said, "Not so friendly, huh? Is it the jacket or the jeans? 'Cause I can be rid of either of those easy enough, if it'll make you feel more comfortable."

_xvalkyrieburns: Insubordination can result in a pay cut, if you wish. Come to the office now, Ross._

_x2081LIA: You're in luck. Café got crowded. On my way._

Without another glance at the boy, she gathered up her laptop and shoved it into her bag, then grabbed her coffee and made to leave.

"Wait, I'm sorry, I just-"

There was a hand gripping her arm a little too firmly for comfort. She shook it off harshly and threw over her shoulder, "_Don't _touch me."

"I didn't mean to-"

The glass door shut with a bang behind her.

Office life truly was particularly _dull_. Sherlock wondered how these people could stand it, and then wondered why they didn't bother to use their heads to full capacity. It had to be so _boring_ to be any less intelligent than he was.

"Don't you think you're being a bit overdramatic?"

Sherlock broke his attention away from the tedium that surrounded him, and latched it onto John. "Overdramatic?"

"Yeah, you're just standing there huffing and sighing at every little thing you look at," said John.

"Look around, John. Do you think these people understand how boring their lives are? Do you think they see how utterly stupid they are?" Sherlock glared at Lestrade's secretary.

John seemed exasperated, but at the same time mesmerized by his flat mate. "Not everyone has your brain, Sherlock."

"_No one _has my brain, John. No one even comes close." He couldn't help but huff once more. "Irksome."

"Oh, come on. You like that everyone else is an idiot," John said, then chuckled.

Sherlock smirked as Lestrade finally came out of the interrogation room. The man ran a hand through his hair tiredly, mumbled some order to his secretary, and then let his eyes fall upon the detective and the doctor now leaning upon an unoccupied desk.

"You," he started, stepping up to them and pointing a finger at Sherlock, "need to learn to stop taking matters into your own hands. It's dangerous, you know - that's what the police are for."

"The criminal would have been long gone had we simply called you," Sherlock intoned. "Shouldn't you be thanking us?"

Lestrade stared at him for a long moment, eyes narrowed and arms crossed, before he begrudgingly consented. "Yeah, fine, _thank you_, but you could at least _try_ to stay out of trouble, yeah?"

John smirked as Sherlock suppressed a chuckle. "We could," he agreed.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Alright, look - I won't make the two of you give me statements if you do me a favor."

Sherlock raised a brow.

"There's been a murder."

The taller of the three gave the impression of immediate boredom. "There's always a murder in London. I'm sure you can handle it, _Inspector_."

"It was a young man, some journalist, and there's something suspicious about this one. It just came in, but the kid was murdered yesterday morning."

Sherlock said nothing, still utterly uninterested.

"A buddy of his was murdered a month ago and the crime scene is five blocks down from your flat."

Sherlock's brow line rose.

John chimed in before Sherlock could try and convince himself that it wasn't significant. "We'll check it out."


	3. The First Corpse

Sherlock's eyes found the corpse immediately upon entering the flat, several seconds before the rest of his senses picked up on it. It was a 21-year-old young man, just as Lestrade had told him, definitely a journalist judging by his suit, lacking build, and shoulders that spoke of much time spent hunched over his work. There was a good deal of blood about the flat, and every drop together told him the story: the man had been stabbed first in the stomach, stumbled around, and then was sliced across the chest, at which point he had fallen over and bled to death.

"Good God," said John quietly from his side. He took the scene in as well, though much slower than Sherlock had.

"Check his laptop," Sherlock told him absently, and then bent next to the body on a stretch of unsoiled carpet. The man had fallen to land on his side, right hand over his stomach and left grasping at nothing in particular, but the body had been pushed over on its back and the jacket pockets had been searched, all based on how the body and clothes were now positioned. The killer had not found what they were looking for on the body, seeing as no pocket had been opened too wide or out-turned, but most likely found it on the-

"Sherlock, look," said John, narrowing his eyes at the screen of the journalist's laptop. Sherlock stood and went to look over the shorter man's shoulder, mind still working through the events of the murder. "There's a password-protected file here in a 'school-work' folder." The title of said file was a long string of dashes and numbers, with no other description.

"Try '_jamesflynnProsperity'_," said Sherlock. "Capital 'P.'"

"How do you know that that's the password?"

He raised an eyebrow at the doctor and said impatiently, "I've done my research - it's the only recent government conspiracy that hasn't yet been brought to light; so perfect for a student in journalism to get his break."

John nodded and tried the password, and the file opened. Inside were thirty or so Word documents, all with similar titles to the folder name. "Oh, the password is the folder's real name," he said, understanding clear in his tone.

"No," said Sherlock. John turned to look at him, unphased by the close proximity. "The password is what he named the conspiracy, yes, but the numbers are still the name he intended for the folder. Notice that all the file names here are strings of numbers less than or equal to 26." The detective nodded towards the screen, then went to stand over the body again. He walked around it several times, gathering data from various angles.

"26?" said John, staring once more at the laptop. "26... Oh! 26 letters in the alphabet - so the numbers are letters?" He turned around for confirmation, but Sherlock was staring intently at the wounds on the body through his small magnifying glass. John shook his head and went on to opening the Word documents.

"The killer was female," muttered the detective, measuring the angles of the wounds.

"What's that?"

Sherlock glanced up at Lestrade entering the room, but almost immediately went back to his examination. "You're looking for a female. About 5'6."

"How do you figure that?" Lestrade asked, brows furrowed. "Don't tell me you're just guessing all this."

Sherlock sent him a dry look. "The angles in which the wounds were inflicted. The killer was allowed close enough to the man to stab him, and then slashed him across the chest with distinctly feminine form - light, premeditated, and precise - both suggesting it's a woman. The angle also very easily tells us her height."

Lestrade raised his brows and crossed his arms. "Alright. Not much to go on, but it's something, at least."

Sherlock put his magnifying glass away and stood once more. This time he turned his attention to the rest of the flat. There was blood on the carpet and a bit on the wall next to the desk where John sat, the coffee table had been turned askew and was a foot from where it had previously sat (judging by the indentions in the carpet,) and the window was open but had been previously locked. Nothing else in the flat had been disturbed.

So the killer had come in through the front door just after the man had gotten ready for the day, killed him, and then left through the window without lingering longer than was necessary to get rid of the information that she wanted removed. But how had she not left a single specific trace of herself behind?

"Sherlock," said John, opening file after file in quick succession. "All of these documents are blank."

"Of course they are, John," said Sherlock distantly, not surprised in the least. "The man was writing about a career-changing conspiracy - thus, murdered."

"Oh, _James Flynn_," said John. "I thought the name had been familiar."

"You mean the one in Parliament?" asked Lestrade.

"Yes!" Sherlock interjected. "He's the only one there with an unclear background. All simplistic and minimal documents, but nothing personal was ever released to the public - a bit suspicious that the man never said anything about himself, but only ever talked about his political views, don't you think? This journalist here thought so too, so he and his friend dug around and found out some things they weren't supposed to know."

"So this woman killed them to keep them quiet?" asked Lestrade, though it didn't sound much like a question. "But why? Think she was involved?"

Something caught Sherlock's eye. He knelt down by the head, took out his magnifying glass once more, and picked up a foot-long hair. "Too long to be his," he muttered, "and he didn't have any girlfriends or lovers."

"That must belong to the killer, then," said John, standing from the desk to kneel on the other side of the body.

Sherlock sniffed the hair, and then smirked very suddenly.

"What?"

"She's much smarter than average," he said, standing with the hair still between his fingers and under the lens. "Smart enough, in fact, that not only did she erase any distinguishing clues that would lead us to her identity, but she also left us a message."

John and Lestrade waited quietly for Sherlock to elaborate.

He snapped his magnifying glass shut and stuffed it back in his pocket, striding across the room with the hair still lifted to eye level. He looked at the other two men in the room. "She left a single hair of hers behind, but was aware of it. Why not just throw it out the window and eliminate her DNA entirely from the flat? No, no, she chemically burned it instead, with an acid strong enough to make it unrecognizable, but weak enough to leave it intact. And then she placed it very carefully next to her victim's head. It's a message!" And then Sherlock went to stride out of the room, throwing the hair back down to the ground.

"Wha- Sherlock!" Lestrade shouted after him. "What's the message, then?"

His reply came loudly from down the hall. "No idea!"

* * *

><p>The walls flashed in the darkness from the light of the muted television. The only sound in the room came from the clacking of a keyboard, and the occasional soft slurp of tea. It was a beautiful night.<p>

The woman on the laptop worked fast, typing away her report with the sort of vigor that she could only muster in the nighttime. She was surprised, really, that she had been so quick to finish her accounting reports, when usually she would procrastinate to do them until the very last minute. She honestly hated this part of the work - it truly was a beautiful night, and here she was, sitting at a desk in a hotel room with all the windows closed and covered.

Not that she cared much for stars, or the full, romantic moon hanging in the sky - those were simply atmosphere. It was just something about the thought of the majority of people sleeping at the same time, and the thought that predators hunted at night, or something along those lines, that made her wish she was out doing field work instead of the boring business work.

She took a sip of tea and leaned back in her chair. She was three quarters of the way done.

Then her mobile rang. She walked across the room to retrieve it from the bedside table, and read the caller ID. _Mother?_ she thought. It was at least eleven o'clock at night, which was definitely not the typical time that her mother would call. And it wasn't even the weekend. It must have been important.

"Hello," she answered, sitting back down at her desk and taking her mug in hand.

"Hello, sweetie," her mother replied. Her tone was tired and a bit distressed. Something had happened that was big enough to call about, but not big enough to cry for. "How has your day been?"

"Fine enough. Um. How was yours?"

"Alright, but…" she trailed off, and then sighed. "Sweetie, have you been watching the news channel today?"

"Sort of," the woman replied, glancing over at the muted television. It was on the news station, but she had turned the volume off in order to get her work done. There was some big story on, she could tell. She went and sat on the edge of the bed in order to read the headlines. "Why?"

"Well," said her mother, pausing for effect as she usually would. "Remember a month ago when that student of mine was found dead in his flat?"

"Mhmm."

"Now his best friend has been murdered as well," said her mother. She heard her sniff wetly on the other end. "Finley Elliot. He was my best student last year - he would always stay behind to help me grade for other classes and such, and he had the highest grades. Even took me out for coffee once or twice just to talk about writing. He always found the best topics, and oh, he was such a good journalist. You know he once dug up documents from the sixteenth century that only one other person in the world knew about, just for an assigned paper."

The woman took a sip of her tea, watching as the news anchor showed the less bloody pictures of the crime scene. "I'm sorry," she said into her phone, not feeling sorry at all but not quite sure what she was supposed to say. She was used to her mother talking about her friendly relationships with her students, and how wonderful they were, so this was no different for her. Her lack of caring was the same as it was with any other student-talk.

"Dear, it just gets worse and worse about London these days doesn't it? Why do you stay there? It must feel so unsafe."

She sipped her tea again, crinkling her face. "I'm perfectly safe, mother. There's no more murder in London these days than there was a hundred years ago." She grabbed the remote control and turned the TV volume on low, listening to the anchor talk about how the police were handling the murder. A gruff looking inspector was offering a statement then, but he didn't say much - it was obvious the man hated publicity, and also that he had no idea what to make of the murders in the first place.

"Well, maybe so, but it's much more safe out here in Surrey, dear," her mother argued.

"Isn't that where his friend was mangled a month ago? Surrey?" the woman retorted. She realized a moment later that it probably wasn't the right thing to say, if her mother's silence was anything to go by. "…I'm just as safe here in London, mother, as I would be in any other place. Crime and corruption isn't just centered in London, it's a worldwide problem, and it has been since the beginning of time. It's stupid to assume that any one place is safer than the next."

"…I hope that's just your way of saying 'Don't worry about me, mum,'" said her mother. She sounded rather put off.

The woman rolled her eyes and kept sipping at her tea, waiting for her mother to say something more worthwhile. She suddenly didn't want to put forth the effort to keep the conversation going, which happened a lot when her mother called her. The police inspector was off the screen by now, and the anchor was talking about crime statistics in London. She muted the television once more and swirled her tea around.

"Well, I'll let you go, dear," said her mother quietly. "You should get some rest - you sound like you need it."

"You, too," the woman said.

"Love you."

"Mhmm."

"Goodnight."

The woman ended the call, tossed her phone lazily to the floor, and immediately walked back to the desk. She felt overwhelmingly bored and restless. On a second thought, she turned back and grabbed the remote, turning the TV off. Then she sat at her laptop and opened an IM.

_x2081LIA: Val._

_xvalkyrieburns: Yes?_

_x2081LIA: I'm bored. Find me something to do._

As soon as it was sent, she closed the laptop and climbed into bed, drifting off into sleep and awaiting her boss's inevitable call that would come an hour later.


	4. The Second Corpse

Sherlock all but jumped out of the cab and ran into the apartment building that Lestrade had called about. The new victim had been dead barely an hour before he was found, and Lestrade had called the consulting detective half an hour later. All of the evidence would be fresher this time around, which was rather exciting. Data was a lot more easily collected with fresher subjects, after all.

He only stopped running when he reached the door to the flat, which he waited to open until John had caught up, distantly and excitedly thinking that this case was much more interesting than the other case he had half-finished. Once inside, all of the evidence was laid out before him like a feast: dead body in a white button-down and black slacks with a dark bruise around the neck, sprawled across a bit of floor that had been previously covered by a rug; that very rug folded over and mussed up, rotated to the left; pieces of a broken vase littering the floor near the feet of the body; indentations in the carpet in the shape of a pair of shoes; an open window; and a small bit of blood in the carpet next to the left hip of the body.

Sherlock took in all of this in the space of four seconds, at the end of which Inspector Lestrade finally noticed his and John's presence.

"Now would you like me to tell you what I know?" asked Lestrade, breaking Sherlock's attention away from the scene. One could tell that he was recalling Sherlock hanging up on him as soon as Lestrade had given the address.

"Is it worth anything?" he responded.

"I'd say so, yeah," said the inspector, furrowing his brows at him before glancing at the body pointedly. "Name's Daniel Caine. About forty years old. Held a very minor position in Parliament, but was recently running for a higher position with a rather, uh-"

"-radical campaign," Sherlock finished for him. "Bad ideas but excellent speaking skills, very manipulative, would have won his election…"

"And then ruined England for sure," John supplied, shaking his head.

"Exactly," said Sherlock. "All obvious."

Lestrade gave a withering look. "Alright, well, tell me why he's been murdered, then."

"I've already said," Sherlock intoned. "Or rather, John's already said."

"He… was killed because of his campaign - because he would have won," Lestrade surmised. "Do you think the killer wanted the other one to win, then?"

"That would have made sense," said Sherlock, walking over to the body, "except that his opponent wasn't James Flynn, whose conspiracy the killer covered up by way of killing the journalist. They're not connected by any other means than that they're both in Parliament, so it wouldn't add up." His brows flicked upwards at the inspector.

"So then how are the victims connected?" asked Lestrade.

"Too early to tell," said Sherlock slowly. He knelt next to the body then, taking out his magnifying glass to further examine it. It only took him a few seconds before he put it away, unbuttoned the man's shirt, and revealed a darker bruise on the left side of his ribs than was on the neck. "John, tell me about these wounds."

John knelt on the other side of the body. "Uh… let's see - three broken ribs here on this side. He was hit with a blunt object, by the size of the bruising. But he died from suffocation," he said, ending by pointing out the neck.

Sherlock nodded. "And which wound came first?"

John raised his brows, but took a closer look at the bruising. "These bruises aren't post-mortem," he said, "so the ribs had to have come first."

"Good," said Sherlock, then standing with a flourish of his coat. He squinted around at the room, nodding to himself minutely. "The killer came in, likely through the front door, and the man heard her and came into this room, where he was obviously killed. But there was a struggle - she attacked him, trying to get at his neck, but he clumsily resisted, thus, blood on the carpet there," he explained, pointing out the stain animatedly, "the messed rug and the broken vase, and the scuff marks in the carpet. She hadn't expected him to fight back so desperately or there wouldn't have been much of a struggle at all, so in order to incapacitate him she kicked him in the ribs a few times. Then she used something metal, like a crowbar, to press into his neck and suffocate him. That's why the bruise there is only in the front and doesn't go around." He motioned about his neck. "She then left through the window."

"Amazing," John interjected quietly, standing and looking about the room.

"So who's blood is it, there?" said Lestrade after a moment, pointing at the stain that Sherlock had a moment ago.

"Hers," said Sherlock. "The body has no blood on it but the stain is fresh. Nose bleed."

"Just a nose bleed? You said it came from the struggle," John said, crossing his arms.

"Yes. He wasn't strong enough to break her nose, but he hit her hard enough in the face, and her nose was dry enough, that it bled," he explained. "Or else he hit her in the mouth. I'll have to run a test on it."

Lestrade nodded. "Alright. Anything else, then?"

"Yes," said Sherlock immediately. "Her shoe size." He pointed at a spot of carpet where a clear indentation of feet was. "37 and a half." He knelt by the print suddenly, and then his eyes scanned the flat as he muttered, "Why stand there long enough to leave an imprint?"

"What was that?" said John, staring at his flat mate whose eyes darted about the room, landing on ordinary things such as pens, notepads, and the television remote.

"She stood here for a long time," he said, standing just as suddenly as he had knelt, "thinking. Looking about the flat just as I am. Then she went there-" he pointed at the end table where a telephone, pen, and notepad sat, "-there-" the coffee table upon which the TV remote sat, "-and there." Last, he pointed to a small desk by the open window, where a cell phone rested on the right side.

"How do you figure?" asked Lestrade, brow furrowed once more.

"Daniel Caine was left-handed," he explained simply. He looked at John. "I explained this during the case with the Black Lotus Tong, yes?"

"In Van Coon's flat, yeah," John agreed. "But…"

"She was searching for some bit of information," Sherlock explained, talking quickly. "Everything in this flat is evidence of a left-handed man - cords plugged in on the left side, pens on the left side of the desk, books on the shelf moved towards and leaning to the left, fork on the left side of the plate in the kitchen, and so on - but three things have been moved." He pointed at them all once more. "The notepad where he took telephone messages is now on the right side of his home phone, the TV remote is on the right side of the coffee table if one were to face the TV, and his cell phone is on the right side of the desk there."

"Why move the remote?" asked John.

Sherlock walked around the flat as he spoke, half acting out his theory. "She was searching for information, as I said, but didn't know where to look. She checked the notepad first, but presumably didn't find it, so she walked over here and played with the remote while she thought and looked around the flat." Sherlock walked to the couch and pointed out another imprint of shoes that supported the theory. "Then she saw the cell phone and checked it, and left through the window right next to it once she found what she was looking for."

Lestrade looked sincerely impressed. "Okay. Well. I s'pose we're getting closer, but that's not really good enough, is it?"

Sherlock smirked, rubbing his hands together. "Actually," he said, "I know exactly who she'll go for next." He turned to face Lestrade. "Two in a row may not make a pattern, but it's certainly enough to predict one."

"How's that, exactly?" asked John, locking his hands behind his back.

"All the victims risk upsetting something in the government. All I have to look for is the next offender. By sheer happenstance, I already know."

"Well, who is it, then?" asked Lestrade in frustration.

He pointed to the corpse in the room. "His opponent's assistant."

"And you know that for sure?"

Sherlock simply raised his eyebrow in response. "With a brother in government, of course I'm sure." He squinted at the inspector.

Lestrade put up his hands in a slightly placating manner, and then went to cross them. "Well, if you know who, then the question is _when_, isn't it?"

"Yes," Sherlock admitted, turning to John with eyebrows raised. "We'll figure that out and get back to you."

Lestrade watched him warily, seeming to want to say something, but then decided against it. "We're done here, then. I'll need to get all this in writing, though. And I'll need her name."

"We'll meet you back at the station."

The inspector raised a brow at the taller man, but shrugged and left for his police car. Forensics would be up to the flat soon, Sherlock knew, so he ushered John out into the hallway.

"You didn't tell him the assistant's name," said John, and then continued after a moment, "and you already know when it's going to happen, don't you?"

Sherlock found himself a bit proud that John was already a step ahead, and couldn't contain a smirk. "Yes."

"When?"

Sherlock began to walk, John at his side. "Tonight."

* * *

><p>"Jack!" came a sudden whisper.<p>

The twenty year old at the table jumped and whipped around, but calmed when he recognized the source of the voice. He smiled with wide eyes, shaking his head, as the woman chuckled a little and sat across from him. "You're effing silent, you know that? Sneaky," he said, wrapping a hand loosely around his beer. "And late. Very, very late."

"And you're drunk," she said, the smile already gone and eyebrows lifting in acknowledgement. "Bit pathetic, that. You've only had one and a half."

He laughed and leaned forward on the table. "I'm not hired to hold my liquor, you know. I'm hired to make _other_ people hold their… um… wait, that doesn't make much sense, does it?"

"No, it doesn't," she said, monotone. She folded her hands in her lap and leaned back in the chair, watching her coworker take another swig of alcohol. _Disgusting, _she thought. "That's your last one. Make it count."

"Says who?" Jack retorted. "Boss-man tell you that?"

She shook her head. "He doesn't need to. I saw the brief on your job tonight. You're going to need a level head for this one."

He waved the comment away and downed the rest of the beer.

"You're idiotic."

"That's a bit uncalled for, don't you think?"

She offered a dry look, tilting her head down. "It's the truth. How many jobs have you executed perfectly?"

He stared at her, mouth open, thinking but not finding an answer.

"None," she answered herself. "You've got terrible judgment. You're an idiot."

"God, are we friends? I can't tell," he said, brows crossed. "You're treating me like an enemy, you know, and I'm so sick of having those. This stupid job - you know I could have been an archeologist?"

She let him ramble, distantly wondering why she'd been invited to come here in the first place. She'd been expecting work-talk, not drunk babbling. So she concentrated on something else: the constant layer of smoke about every corner of the room, the sounds of clanking glasses and drunken laughter, the couples and the groups that littered every table and stool. The whole place was pitiable, and there wasn't a single interesting person around.

She turned back to her coworker when his ramble ended. He looked much calmer now.

"You weren't listening, were you?" he asked her tiredly.

She shook her head. Of course not.

He sighed and waved over a busty waitress, asking for a glass of water. When she was gone, he leaned towards her over the table. "Alright, I'm an idiot. 'Specially compared to you. Not like it's relevant, right?"

"It's always relevant," she replied, matter-of-factly. "The idiots get caught, the intelligent ones don't."

"Well, I'm in luck," he said as his glass arrived. "I haven't gotten caught yet." He drank deeply and then set it down.

She smirked at him, but said nothing on the matter.

"Alright, well, I hear you've got some detective on your case," Jack smirked. "That's gotta be fun - tell me about that."

She raised her eyebrows mischievously. "Not much to tell about it. There's a detective on my tail."

"Oh, come on, I know you do your research on these cops."

She sighed. "Okay. First off, he's not a cop."

"No?"

"He's not even paid to do whatever it is he does. He calls himself a 'consulting detective.'"

"God, doesn't _that_ sound familiar…" Jack trailed. His forehead crinkled with thought, but after a moment he shook his head. "Can't think why. Maybe I've heard of the guy before."

"Maybe," she said, sure that it was the best reply. "All it tells me is that the cops aren't doing a good enough job, but they're desperate enough - and I suppose you could call it passionate - to go looking to this man for help. Means they really want me caught. It's kind of annoying, really. Val's miffed."

"Val?"

"Your boss, genius."

"Right. Why's he ticked about it? 'S not like it's your fault."

"It has something to do with the '_higher-ups_,' as he put it. Too much pressure, or something of the like. I didn't pay much attention."

Jack chuckled. "Well. That certainly does suck." He chuckled again. "I love that he's after you, and not me or the others. It's funny, actually."

"I'm sure," she said, closing her eyes for a moment and breathing in the smoke in the air.

"You know, I think they've been giving you all the good jobs lately," Jack said thoughtfully. He swallowed down more water. "I haven't got nil to do this week besides the job tonight. And this one's not even exciting. You've got all that hush-hush stuff that we've all been begging for. It's not fair, you know?"

"We get what we can take," she said instead of just going along with it. "I'm the best at what I do, so they give me the work that no one else can handle."

"That's a tad conceited of you, don't you think?" he asked, frowning. "And rude."

She didn't say anything. Instead, she took a deep breath.

He looked at her warily for a second before he sighed and took another drink.

"What time is it?" she asked suddenly, leaning forward out of the chair.

"Uh, eight. Why?"

"I need to leave and get ready for tonight. You should, too."

He shrugged.

The woman rolled her eyes at her coworker once more, and then stood. "Don't be stupid, Jack," she advised him quietly, knowing he risked everyone's safety when he risked his own. "You'll get yourself killed." And she left.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Sorry for the huge delay - I didn't intend for that to happen. Hope it was up to par. Also, again, thank you so much to my lovely beta **skeletonpsalms91**. Enjoy!


	5. Rivers Run

**A/N:** Sorry for the wait, guys. It was completely unintentional. Hope you enjoy! Things are about to get even more interesting...

* * *

><p>The towering hotel before them stood bright and proud, illuminating their faces with a gold hue even where they were on the edge of the sidewalk. It seemed a strangely fitting location for the murder that was supposed to happen this very night in one of its bottom floor rooms.<p>

"Do you think she'll have done it yet, Sherlock?" John asked, eyeing the first floor windows.

Sherlock squinted into the lobby, shooting glances at almost every detail. "We'll see," he replied, and then promptly went through one of the rotating doors. John followed close behind.

The lobby was simplistic, but spoke heavily of its five-star rating. Even the smaller things - the door handles, the bell on the counter of the reception - were proven to be expensive upon closer inspection. The receptionist was a young woman who smiled little, her hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail.

She eyed them as they approached her, looking them both up and down. "Can I help you?" she asked politely. Her eyes, however, showed a bit of disgust at the two men, very obviously communicating her thoughts: gay couple, here for a room to themselves.

Sherlock offered a quick smile, nodding his head slightly towards her, and then straightened instantly and dropped the congenial demeanor. "Which room belongs to Bridget Iverson?" he asked her bluntly.

She stared for a moment but quickly recovered. "I'm sorry, sir, but she asked that we not give her room number to anyone, especially while she's in."

_Didn't have to look up the name to know who she was - so the woman lives here,_ he thought. He lowered his chin a fraction. "It's a matter of life and death," he said, quieter than before.

The receptionist, again, could only stare for a moment, but this time her face betrayed her confusion. She thought for a long minute, watching Sherlock, not sure what to believe. "Life and death, sir? Are… are you two the police?"

"We work for them," John supplied.

"And if we can't get to Ms. Iverson in time," said Sherlock, "she'll be killed."

Her eyes widened, and then she searched through a drawer behind the desk, producing a passkey and handing it to them. "Room 109, down the hall there," she said quickly, pointing in the right direction. "Should I call-"

"No, no, just let us handle it," Sherlock said over his shoulder. He was already walking quickly towards the appointed room - not out of necessity, as he doubted they would miss much in the space of a few extra seconds, but more out of appearance.

John followed him to the door labeled '109' in simple golden letters, where Sherlock tested the handle. It was locked, which wasn't abnormal. He held his hand out for the passkey, and John gave it over. When the light on the lock system blinked green, Sherlock eased open the door, and the two of them slipped inside.

The lights were off in the entire suite. Sherlock looked back at John in what little light they had from the uncovered windows, and the shorter man's face showed worry. It was too early in the night for the woman to have gone to bed, and they knew from the receptionist's response that she must still be here. Sherlock turned back towards the living room portion of the suite and took a few steps in, noting potential hiding places and listening intently for any foreign movement.

A muted sliding sound came from the bedroom - _a window opening_, thought Sherlock, and with a sudden bolt of adrenaline, he ran towards the sound. He halted when he spotted the source, as the source spotted him back.

A pair of eyes stared back into his from the ledge of the open window. The figure had one arm and leg out, obviously in the process of sneaking out.

Sherlock glanced left towards the bed very quickly - body lying spread eagle on its back, gunshot wounds in lower abdomen and temple - and then back at the figure, who had proceeded to jumping out the window.

Sherlock bent and leapt to the window, perching on the sill with his hands on the frame. The killer had already landed and was jogging away. She didn't expect him to follow her, but follow her he did: he jumped to the ground and sprinted towards her, posture intact but moving much faster than most. She looked back in surprise before she kicked up her speed, and Sherlock took that instant to memorize what he could make out of her features.

She was brunette, but there were spots in her hair where it had been dyed lighter or darker but had faded over time, and her hair went down to her shoulder blades with bangs that tapered from her brow. Her face was unexpressive - what emotions she showed were subdued - and she had a Greek-shaped nose. There was a mesh of scar tissue on the left side of her neck from either a burn or a bad laceration (closer examination would tell.)

He smirked a little as she ran through the alley and towards an upcoming street. If he lost her here, which he doubted he would, he could certainly pick her out of a crowd - if not by her facial features, then by her clothing: well-worn leather jacket, easily stretched jeans, combat boots, and gloves, all black or very dark in color. She'd made the mistake of letting him see her, so now nearly half of the mystery was over.

They crossed a narrow street, lucky to not have any cars in their way, into another alleyway. She was just as fast as him but she was beginning to breathe heavily. _Not accustomed to running,_ he thought, listening to her breath start to echo along with their footfalls. _So not accustomed to getting caught._

Then she darted left, slamming into a metal door, pulling it open forcefully, and darting inside. He followed swiftly after her. They were inside an apartment building and still running. She dodged a resident and swung around a corner, and then another, in an attempt to lose him. He followed her still as she ran to the end of a hallway and pushed through the exit there, entering the other side of the alleyway.

Her breath echoed louder, but it began to become drowned in the sound of traffic. Sherlock knew which street they were coming up on, and he worked through how bad the traffic would be, not liking what he found. Either she knew how bad it would be as well or she was just oblivious, but for whatever reason, she bolted straight into the busy street. Her head whipped around, and she expertly made it to the middle before she had to pause to avoid severe injury, and then she was off again.

But Sherlock had to pause twice and for twice as long, just by luck of the draw. He lost ground. Growling to himself, he made it across to the next alleyway. The killer was over twenty meters away now, and it was at this point that Sherlock wondered, _where is John? _He didn't risk glancing behind him as he ran for fear of losing his target, but he knew he only heard two pairs of footsteps echoing in the alley so John was too far behind to help.

Somehow, the woman seemed to be running faster than Sherlock now, and before he could even think to sprint harder, she turned right around a corner. He heard something heavy but soft get pushed to the ground, and then he heard a distant door slam a few seconds later. By the time he rounded the same corner, she was nowhere in sight.

He stopped, breathing heavily, and looked almost frantically around at his surroundings. There was no sign of her - there were doors everywhere, and she could have chosen any one of them! He huffed, baring his teeth for a second, mind moving a hundred miles an hour. He heard shuffling from his right and turned to it quickly.

An old homeless man was getting to his feet. Once he was standing relatively straight, Sherlock went to stand barely a foot from him and demanded, "Where did she go?"

"Wha - who?" the old man hoarsed, and then swore. "That one who shoved me over? Hell if I know."

"She was right there!" he insisted, gesturing somewhere vague.

"Yeah? And I was a bit busy gettin' up, wasn't I?" The man glared at Sherlock. "Do I know you?"

"No," said Sherlock immediately, begrudgingly thinking that his homeless network wasn't always the most useful. He turned around, looking for the most probable door that the killer would have taken, but finding none. She could have gone anywhere, and the longer he took to figure it out, the further away she got.

His phone vibrated in his coat pocket. He walked back the way he came as he took it out to read the incoming text.

_Where are you? I'm about to call Lestrade - John_

Sherlock shook his head minutely and texted back.

_Don't bother. She's gone. Meet me back at the flat. - SH_

As an afterthought, he sent another:

_And get the tea ready. - SH_

* * *

><p>The woman rolled over in the bed, all at once feeling drowned in the lavish pillows and covers and not far enough down in them. For a moment, the drowning part was scary, especially in the pitch darkness, but then she was startled out of the thought when something on the bedside table began to vibrate rigorously. She groaned and all but swam from the center of the giant bed towards the source of the heinous sound: her mobile.<p>

She picked it up with an unnecessary flourish and lay back into the pillows, pulling the covers tighter around her, before she read the caller ID. She groaned again, accepted the call, and then put the phone to her ear.

"Hello?" she answered, sleep still heavy in her voice.

"Did I wake you, darling?" came the male voice on the other end. "I'm ever so sorry to bother you."

"Val, don't play sweet with me," she said shortly, wanting very much in that moment to stretch. "I know you're irritated."

"I've always loved that you're as cohesive when you wake up as you are normally - it makes things much easier," her boss said, agitation dripping into every syllable. "Tell me about your job earlier. In as much detail as possible."

"I hardly think I need to."

"Then why don't you tell me about what happened immediately _after_ the job."

"Val," she said, swallowing a yawn. She sat up in the bed and crossed her legs under the covers. "You know what happened. I didn't expect him to be there, and then to chase after me."

"And do you think that makes it better?" her boss said, voice rising. "That it was just a mistake and at least it wasn't premeditated?"

She chose not to say anything.

"I understand that mistakes happen, I do, but when they're mistakes like this I can't help but _worry_ a little bit, can I?" he said. He was uncharacteristically angry - normally he was a very collected man. "And now this detective has seen your face. Now he'll be able to look for you. And I've been told that he's good enough to find you."

Her brow furrowed. "By who?"

"Higher-ups," he said simply. He didn't say anything for a moment but she could faintly hear his breathing; he was calming himself down. "They're getting excited about this detective."

"Excited?"

"Yes, and I'm not sure why. But I certainly don't like it."

She thought for a moment, leaning back against the pillows. _They make him nervous, especially when they're like this, _she thought. "They must be intimidating people."

Her boss didn't comment. "Just don't let this happen again. We can't operate with a detective breathing down our backs, or with our best thrown in prison. These kinds of mistakes put us all in danger."

She squinted into the darkness. "Fine. Won't happen again."

For a moment, he didn't say anything. She wondered if he was smirking as she knew he did whenever he got her to submit to him. Then, "Back to sleep, darling." And he hung up.

She sunk back under the covers after throwing her phone to the carpeted floor, and drowned herself once again.


	6. The Same Sick Sense

"Sherlock, have you eaten today?"

The man at the window made no reply, but instead continued to stare out onto Baker Street, one hand holding open the curtain, the other in his trouser pocket.

"Sherlock," said John again, walking forward to lean on the back of his chair. "Sherlock, you need to eat."

The other man still did not reply, because he could not hear him. He was lost in his thoughts, wading through the facts, swimming through government scandals both old and new. Which one was next on the killer's mind? He had been so close the last time! But what was the specific pattern attached to her hit list?

John stared at Sherlock for a long moment, and then stood straight and grabbed his coat. "Right," he said. "I'm going to do the shopping and then I'll bring back dinner." He lingered for a moment, waiting for Sherlock to say something affirmative, but left when no attention came.

Sherlock squinted into the twilight. Everyone in government had a secret these days, even Mycroft (_especially _Mycroft.) Did she even _have_ a pattern or a hit list? Or did she just go out as soon as she found a random scandal? No - someone who killed government officials, for any reason, usually had an anarchist or dictator type of personality, which would subsequently make the murders done in anger or a violent sort of judgment. Those types of murders were either quick or brutal, and these were neither.

These murders barely had any flavor to them at all. Stabbed and sliced across the chest to die of blood loss, cracked ribs and suffocation, and shot in the abdomen and head. Patterns? Not one had only a single wound; they always had two. One to hurt or incapacitate, and one to finish the job.

Sherlock's eyes widened, though admittedly not at the sight of John hailing a cab on the street (when had he left?)

"'The job'," he whispered to himself. "Jobs - they're jobs. She's a _hired_ killer."

He left the window with a rush of adrenaline, turning about the room, thinking at a ridiculous speed. _Of course_, he thought. It explained why the killings were so cold, so bland - why they hadn't been done out of the typical reasons for murder: greed, anger, jealousy, revenge, accident. It also explained why, though the killer's signature was there, they never seemed to connect very much. The first was to hide a monetary conspiracy, the second to prevent an election, the third to keep a scandal from being revealed - the only things they had in common were government and corruption. And even then, the killer revealed no emotion, in what she left behind nor in her face.

The only reason she would have to do any of it would be for work - for money. So the question now was what government-related person would bring in the most money for her?

Sherlock clapped his hands together, standing still once more. The name danced in his head: Nickolas Underwood. Long-time sneaky embezzler. "Perfect," he whispered, and then grabbed his coat, shoved his arms in, and wrapped his scarf around his neck as he rushed out of the flat.

He researched the man on his phone, looking for an address, then growling when none showed up. He took a second to think. He then begrudgingly texted Mycroft as pedestrians snaked around him on the sidewalk.

_Where does Nickolas Underwood live? It's urgent. - SH_

He looked around for a cab while he awaited a reply, willing his brother to be quick about it. He hailed one as his mobile buzzed a moment later.

_Why such a rush? - MH_

Immediately after that came through, the address was sent to him from, presumably, his assistant's phone. Sherlock climbed into the cab and barked his destination to the cabbie. He needed to warn the man of what was coming for him. And then he needed to catch the assassin.

His fingers drummed impatiently on his knee until the moment he arrived at the modest address on the outskirts of London. He shoved money in the cabbie's general direction as he climbed hurriedly out of the car, figuring out the best way in his head to go about warning the man. As he knocked on the door with seven quick raps, he figured that the best way would be to just tell him as it was.

A stout, weedy, bald man opened the door, his face weary at the sight of Sherlock's intense gaze. The man quickly straightened himself however and looked him squarely in the eyes. "Yes?" he said.

"I'm here to warn you," said Sherlock. There wasn't much time left before the woman would come to do her job - night had already fallen.

"About what?" said Nickolas Underwood, frowning.

"Someone is coming to assassinate you tonight," he said bluntly. "They know about your embezzlements. As do I, as it happens."

Underwood was startled. He unconsciously opened the door wider and took a step back. Sherlock decided pointedly not to force his way inside as his instinct told him to do. "I-" the bald man stuttered, "I don't believe you!"

"How would you wish I prove it to you, then? Would you like me to inform you of each one of your _twenty-one cases _of embezzlement over the years you've been in office?" asked Sherlock, irritated at the man's obliviousness. "Or would you like me to enlighten you on the matter of the series of government assassinations that have occurred over the past few weeks? A series of assassinations, as I've hinted, that you may become a part of tonight?"

Underwood let out a string of started and failed sentences, before he finally settled on, "But why should I trust you? You're - you're not a cop!"

"I work for the police, but I'm afraid there's not time enough to call them."

Underwood seemed to appraise Sherlock's words, and he thought for a long moment, slowly steadying himself. "…Then what do you propose I do?"

"Leave," said Sherlock. "Go somewhere safe, perhaps a police station. Meanwhile, I'll await the killer here and turn her in."

Underwood seemed suspicious. "How can I trust that this isn't some trick to simply get into my house and steal from me?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the man, letting him find the potential threat of blackmail himself.

The man nodded after a terse moment. "Right. But if I do come back to find my things swindled, know that you will go to jail, sir."

Sherlock flicked his brows upward, unperturbed by the man's threat. "It would be in your best interest to _hurry_, Mr. Underwood."

The man disappeared behind the door for a moment with a huff, but then came out with his shoes and suit jacket, and phone in hand. He nodded stiffly to Sherlock, called up a cab, and left.

Sherlock entered the house, closing the door behind him (but without locking it, as it hadn't been locked before he arrived,) and finding his way to the other side of the house, which happened to be the den. He went to the furthest corner away from the entryway and stood there in wait.

The killer might come at any moment, or she might come hours later. Sherlock had figured out her window of work time, but she had no set pattern on when to do her jobs. She must have based them off the victims' schedules, which was, admittedly, the smarter thing to do. But Sherlock already knew she was clever. She had left deliberate marks wherever she went: first, the chemically burned hair in the student's flat; second, the blood on the floor that she had chosen not to clean up; and then, just the night before, a random shard of glass found on the bed next to the victim, with the sharp point angled towards the gunshot wound in Ms. Iverson's lower abdomen. She'd left nothing behind that would help the police identify her, but had instead left abstract messages that would mean nothing to anyone but herself.

Sherlock leaned against the recently cleaned piano behind him, drumming his fingers impatiently, once again, on the wood. She wouldn't be easy to take down, he knew. But he also knew that he could still accomplish it. Plus, he had the element of surprise with him - she wouldn't expect him to be there. She thought herself too smart to get caught, and she would probably take extra precautions this time to keep herself safe. No doubt being so close to getting caught the night before had instilled some sense of worry or weariness in her.

Sherlock was ready. And after fifteen long minutes, the front door to the house opened and shut quietly, and there was the distinct sound of heavy boots on tile. It was her.

She hadn't entered through the window, which was a little strange. _Either she knows he's gone, or she expects him to be far enough away from the door that he wouldn't have heard that_, he thought. He stood up straight, cautious not to make the slightest noise.

The killer walked lightly but casually through the entryway, closer and closer to the den. She paused where a hallway began towards Underwood's bedroom and stayed completely still for almost a minute. She was listening for sounds of life. When she heard none, she continued towards the den, her steps considerably heavier. She was no longer cautious - she knew he wasn't home, but she didn't leave, so she planned to wait until he returned.

She entered the den, unzipping her jacket as she approached a large chair. Then she paused and turned away from Sherlock, simply looking around the room, before she turned the other way. Her dark eyes met his light ones, and she froze completely.

Neither moved. Sherlock found that he didn't quite know what to do - he had expected her to immediately charge at him, and had planned to go from there. But she simply stared at him, as if she was in a similar predicament. She had one hand on her jacket, and the other was suspended outwards from her side. He knew her knives were barely inches away from her hand, but still she did not move - she didn't know what to do either.

So Sherlock moved first. He charged her with the intention of grabbing her, but as he moved, she reacted by withdrawing her switchblade and moving to slash at him. He dodged it and she tried again, but this time he caught her wrist, twisted it, and caused the knife to fall to the ground. As this happened, her other hand withdrew the KA-BAR and made to stab him, but his body twisted and he was able to do the same to this hand that he had done to the other. Both of her wrists were locked in his grip, and he knew that the only other weapon she would have would be her handgun. His eyes swept over her body, finding it to be out of his line of sight; either it was in the back of her pants, or she had come without it.

"Pervert," she hissed with a slight smirk and eyes wide, misreading his gaze, and then twisting her arms to break his grip. When she was loose, she made to dash out the front door.

Sherlock was too close, however, and tackled her to the ground. He struggled to lock her arms behind her back, but succeeded after barely a few seconds. She continued to struggle against him, but when she couldn't get free, she huffed and gave up.

"Done?" asked Sherlock, raising his brows at her though he knew she couldn't see him.

She was quiet for a moment. "…What now?" she asked him mockingly. "I know you don't have handcuffs, and you're not going to get very far with me if you have to take a hand off me to call the cops."

He squinted at her, and then swiftly replaced a hand with his knee, letting his body weight keep her in check. He reached for his mobile. "I wonder if you're smart enough to escape prison," he mused aloud.

"You're heavy for being so skinny," she commented quietly and almost bitterly. "You don't eat much. Must be muscle or heavy bones, then." She attempted to shove him off in a half-hearted effort, but failed. She spoke even quieter, "Screw you. I'm taking care of you next."

"Not a terribly _logical_ plan, that," he said as he sent a text to Lestrade.

She was quiet.

He put his phone away then and gave his attention to her. It would take a bit for Lestrade to arrive, he knew, so he had time to peek into her head. "Who is it that you work for?" he asked her.

She laid her head on the tile floor, her face turned towards him, as her body relaxed. A small smirk was her response, and then her eyes darted towards him. "Who do _you_ work for?"

He narrowed his eyes at her. "Give me a name."

Her eyes didn't leave his. "Mine? My boss's? Yours?"

"Give me _his _name."

"I can't."

He glared at her, but she only rolled her eyes. He lifted his chin and continued looking down at her. "Give me his name."

"I told you I can't," she said quietly. "Although, I could make one up for you if you want. For convenience. I'm sure you want to know _all_ about him, detective, since it'll do you _so_ much good."

He blinked. Then he narrowed his eyes again. "You don't even know his name, do you?"

"You're intelligent," she said simply, but he knew it was confirmation. "I know you know that I am, too, though. I've made that much obvious."

"Yes," he allowed. "Yet here you are."

She was silent for a moment, and her eyes closed. And then she laughed.

Sherlock raised a brow at her.

"This is all very ironic," she muttered when the laughing stopped. She glanced at him. "_The idiots get caught, the intelligent ones don't_. I suppose I'm proving myself wrong."

"Or perhaps you are an idiot," Sherlock said.

"No," she said, serious but casual. "I'm not. I'll just have to rework my theory. …By the way, what did you do with my target?"

"I warned him you were coming and told him to leave. He won't become your victim, I assure you."

"Hm," she said. "Not tonight anyways, no. That's too bad. I was looking forward to this one." She closed her eyes again. "I always like the bloody ones better. They're so boring otherwise. …I'd planned to slit the throat this time - I've never gotten to do that without having to hide the evidence, you know."

Sherlock sighed.

"Disappointed?" she asked him, opening her eyes and moving her gaze back to his. "Thought that might make you sick, but I see you've got a strong stomach. Used to dead bodies, then. Lots of them."

"Tell me - do you think it's genius or insanity, this mindset of yours?" he asked, though he knew she was psychotic. That much was clear.

She chuckled, but the laugh had no humor in it. "I'm not psychotic," she told him, and he blinked back in response. "I'm a sociopath, yes, I can admit that much. But insanity has nothing to do with my 'mindset'."

"You're a hired killer," he said. "You work for a man that won't reveal his name, and you get paid for every job you do."

"Why would that mean I'm insane? Murder is almost never a crime of madness."

"If insanity hadn't a thing to do with murder, then everyone would do it."

"You don't need to be insane to be willing to murder someone," she said, but paused. "…That's not what you're saying, though, I see. Think, then. _You_ would murder someone, if you had reason to. I know you would - it's written all over you. Maybe not now, but if someone pushed you to that point -"

"But I don't need it," he interrupted her. There was an echo in her voice - something in her words that reminded him of a dark pool. He chose not to listen to it, not to relive the memory. "So why do you?"

She was silent. But Sherlock knew the answer: she liked it. She liked causing the mystery as much as he liked solving it.

"Who do you work for?" he asked her again, but this time with a renewed want for the answer. Her boss wouldn't give out his name, but he used people to do his work for him; the scenario was familiar to Sherlock, and perhaps it was _him_ again. Moriarty.

"We've been over this," she said, her body tensing, and she tried again to throw him off. His knee shifted off a little, but he repositioned it so that she still could not escape. She continued to try.

He glared at her. "Is it Moriarty?"

Her movements quelled for but a moment. "Who?" she asked.

The front door opened then and in walked Lestrade, holding a pair of handcuffs. He assessed the scene with a questioning eye. "Alright," he said, figuring out a way to go about cuffing the woman. Sherlock looked up at him. "Do we have a name?"

"No."

Lestrade stared at him for a moment, but then shook his head and set to work. She struggled against their efforts valiantly, but eventually the cuffs were on and they got her standing. "A bit of cooperation would be lovely, yeah?" he asked her harshly, moving a hand to the gun in his holster pointedly. He kept the hand rested there as they walked her to the door.

John was just outside, arms crossed, to the side of the door. He stared at Sherlock as he crossed the threshold. Sherlock stopped, making the other two stop as well, and he turned to John.

"Could you _please_ not do this anymore?" said John. He was angry.

But before the conversation could continue, there was a heavy thud behind the detective, followed by a sharp kick in the back of Sherlock's thigh. Then John was forced to stumble backwards. As Sherlock was driven to kneel by sheer force of pain, he watched as the killer swiftly stepped through the loop of her arms, moving her hands in front of her. With her hands came her handgun, which she proceeded to point at John. Sherlock distantly noted that it _had _been in the back of her jeans, but he hadn't been positioned low enough down her back to feel it when he'd had her pinned down.

She moved towards John and then side-stepped around him, the gun trained on his head the entire time, as his arms rose into the air at her command. Lestrade sat up behind Sherlock, but he was not able to retrieve his own gun before she spoke.

"Reach for your gun, Inspector, and there will be a bullet in his head." She paused, but then, in a sudden rush of movement, she had the chain of her handcuffs in front of John's neck with one hand on his shoulder, the other still pointing the gun at him. She took a step back, eyes impossibly intense and lips quirking. "And if you follow me, I'll put a bullet in his neck."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Let me know what you thought in a review!


	7. A Human Thing

"So how much do you trust me, John Watson?" the woman asked her hostage, as the detectives and cops disappeared from view around the corner.

"Is that a trick question?" he responded scathingly. His hands were still up in the air, and his steps seemed to be a heavier version of hers.

"Just answer it." She leaned her face into the back of his neck, wondering if it would have an effect on the man at all. They continued backing towards her destination, though the pace had picked up a little; she was very conscious of all ways in which the situation could turn against her.

"I trust that you wouldn't hesitate to kill me," he muttered, trying as best he could to lean away from her.

"Good." She smirked and glanced behind her. The car was still there, as was her escort. The engine started as they approached.

John tensed a little more at the sound, no doubt figuring out what she planned to do with him. Then his stomach rumbled rather too loudly.

"Do either of you ever eat?" she asked him sarcastically. Her escort exited the car and opened the backseat door for her. Without a glance towards the nameless chaperone, she scooted into the seat, maneuvering the man in her arms so that he had to sit sideways against her. She kept the barrel of the gun on him, knowing it wouldn't be long before he decided to try and escape.

The escort began to close the door, but she stopped him with a command. "I need you to get these off of me first," she told him, shaking her cuffs and consequently tightening them around John's neck. The driver pulled a lock pick out of his pocket (_Ever-prepared, these escorts are,_ she thought dimly) and set to work.

Suddenly a sharp pain blossomed over her eyebrow as John's head snapped back and his hands captured her wrists, at the same time that he kicked the escort in the stomach as hard as he could. The driver fell to the pavement, but the woman pulled her hands back, pushing the chain against John's neck and raising his arms away from his torso, before she swung her leg around and caught him in the ribs. She then wrapped that leg around his torso, and twisted her own torso for his to follow; she could handle the contortion, but John grunted in pain as his more inflexible body was twisted just past its limit. The rib she had fractured kept him even further in check.

"I have the capability to kill you, Dr. Watson, but I really don't want to," she hissed into his ear, baring her teeth though he couldn't see her. She felt blood trickle down her face from above her right brow. "Don't give me reason to."

John's response was a grunt of pain.

"What do you even think I'm going to do with you?" she asked him calmly. "Where do you think I want to go? …Not too logical to fight me, don't you think?"

He didn't answer.

She sat them up straight once more and removed her leg, then shook his hands off of hers. Her escort finally stood up and finished getting the cuffs off her, then closed the door and returned to the driver's seat, swearing to himself. As the car began to move quickly away, she one-handedly attached her handcuffs to John's wrists behind his back, and then pushed with her gun until his head laid on the seat.

"Where am I headed?" asked the escort.

She glanced at John. "Anywhere, really - but somewhere nondescript and away from here," she told him. "And away from Baker Street."

The man nodded and turned down a random street, picking up speed.

"You don't even know where we're going?" asked John, turning his head slightly so that he wasn't speaking into the fabric seat.

"Can't you ask more interesting questions?" she asked in return. "Questions you don't already know the answers to, perhaps?"

She was sure he was glaring at her. When he didn't say anything more, she looked him over, wondering if there was anything interesting about the man at all. He wasn't freaking out or even remotely shaking, so he had to have been acclimatized to violence. His jacket was rather particular, having only the left shoulder and both elbows leather, the rest a standard material for a warm jacket; she had seen this type of jacket on people who used guns for a living. He must have been some sort of cop or soldier, but the facts that he was in London (and not in war) and that he hadn't been called to the house as an officer (since he wasn't wearing a badge or uniform) told her that he wasn't currently in service.

But none of that was terribly interesting to her, and other than that information, he seemed perfectly normal. Besides the fact that he hung around someone as interesting as Sherlock Holmes.

She smirked to herself. _Now there's a person I want to know more about,_ she thought. Sherlock Holmes was intriguing. He called himself a "consulting detective" and claimed on his website to be the only one in the world, but there was more to him than his mind for deduction. As she found out while in her target's house, the man was also a pretty good fighter - at least defensively. The fact that he had been able to incapacitate her so quickly had shocked her. He was intelligent, sarcastic, musically talented (the calluses on his fingers were proof enough of that,) and was possibly just as "insane" as she was, which was always fun.

She couldn't say she liked the man - after all, he was out to thwart her - but he was piquant, and that was reason enough for her to waste time thinking about him.

"What _are_ you going to do with me?" asked John suddenly.

She stared at the back of his head and shifted in her seat. It wasn't the most comfortable car for sitting sideways. "Still so typical. Is that really all one thinks about when taken hostage?" she asked quietly. "Just what's going to happen to them?"

"Generally, yeah, I'd say so," said John.

"Ugh," she said, losing interest. "Well, not much. …I'm bored. I need reading material." She looked around the car for effect, then back at John, knowing already what she wanted to read. "Which pocket's your phone in?"

"My- my what?"

"Your mobile phone," she said slowly. She checked his left jeans pocket: empty.

"What do you plan to read on my _phone_? My texts?" he asked, almost incredulous, but mostly suspicious.

She checked the left pocket of his jacket. "There it is," she declared, and pulled it out for inspection, making sure that her attention was divided enough to keep the gun on John's head. "Bit overused for someone like you. Actually, is this even your phone? It doesn't look like you at all."

"Yes, it's my phone," he said. He shifted in his seat as she had, trying to get comfortable. "What are you doing with it?"

"Not really one for repeating myself," she muttered. She went to his contacts and pulled up the number she wanted, immediately going about the feat of memorizing it. As she repeated it over and over in her head, she went to his first saved text and began to read the story. "Is Sherlock Holmes the only person you ever text?"

John decidedly did not answer.

She scanned through every text, finding the occasional one from someone named "Harry". But most of them were from the detective, and they entailed things like bits of his cases, strange home experiments, money for rent, and food. "So the two of you are flat mates," she mumbled, continuing on. They had an interesting relationship, to say the least. Then she saw texts from just the night before, when she had run away, which made her smirk to herself. The last set of texts on the phone were from a "Greg Lestrade", who told John to come to Nickolas Underwood's house and why.

_Seems like nobody had wanted Sherlock Holmes there, _she thought. _Especially not me._ After a long while, though admittedly there weren't too many texts to go through, she stopped reading and checked herself to make sure she had the right number memorized. Then she checked their surroundings. They weren't far enough away for her taste.

"Why bother kidnapping me?" asked John. "What do you want from me?"

"Haven't you already asked that?"

"Well, I'm asking again."

She rolled her eyes and began to twirl the phone around her fingers. "I don't want anything from you," she said. "I needed a hostage. You were the only candidate." _Lucky for me that you had your phone on you, though._ "Now, could you ask some better questions?"

She kicked her leg up on the seat so that her foot rested next to his thigh. John tried his best to inch away, but gave up when he found it impossible. For a moment, the car was quiet. Then he asked, "Who are you?"

"Finally," she muttered. "You know, in all my years of work, no one has ever asked me that - granted, I didn't give them a chance to, but regardless…"

He stayed silent, waiting for an answer.

"I'm not going to tell you, of course," she said with a smirk. "Thanks for asking, though, I suppose."

He sighed and moved his arms a bit, no doubt trying to keep them from falling asleep. "Alright, then - why did you kill all those people?" he asked instead.

She opened up a new text on John's phone, seeing that they were far enough away from the house, and began to meticulously type out her message. The driver had begun to slow down, and was looking for a place to stop. "Why does anyone do anything?" she mumbled. "Why does Inspector Lestrade do _his_ job?"

He didn't answer.

"Because he gets paid," she told him. "And here's a non-rhetorical question for you: why do you follow Sherlock Holmes around? Why do you bother, when, as I can assume, he must be so difficult to be friends with?"

"Do you even know what a friend is?" he asked instead, irritation clear in his voice. She could easily infer that he'd been asked this question before.

"I don't need to. Answer the question."

She watched the muscles in his neck tense. "Because he _is _my friend, and we help each other. And I've no obligation to say anything else."

She pressed the 'send' button when the car stopped:

_Come get him. - T_

"True," she said, willing the frustration in her body to leave. She hated texting. "But that's not the only reason. Otherwise you wouldn't be so defensive about it. It's something about what you two do, solving crimes and all, that makes you stay. …Anyways, give me your gun. I'm out two good knives because of your _friend_." She reached into his pockets before he could even protest, searching until she found what she wanted.

The driver unlocked the door opposite her, and with the toe of her boot, she pulled the handle and kicked the door open. Then she stuffed his phone back into his pocket, and forcefully pushed him out onto the curb of an empty London road. She shut the door when he landed on the pavement, and then rolled down the window.

"You know how to text with your hands behind your back, don't you?" she called out to him, watching as he was finally able to send a glare at her.

Her escort drove off then, leaving the man behind them in the dark of night.

"Where to, now?" said the escort.

She closed her eyes against the air that blew in through the open window, breathing in the promise of rain. "Burns," she told him. "He's going to want to hear about this in person."

"Erm," he said. "I don't know where he is. We're not allowed to know."

"Please, he's not like the higher-ups," she scoffed.

"Doesn't he change location every day or so?"

"No. He stays in one place - he's not the one who has to keep hiding around. _Call_ him."

"I… don't have his number. I'm not allowed to have it."

"Why are you so useless, apart from owning a car and a license?" she asked, pulling out her own mobile and speed-dialing their boss.

He answered on the first ring. "You're supposed to be on a job. Why are you calling me?"

"Complication."

"That bad?" he asked. She heard papers shuffling. "Tell me you're joking."

She chose not to say anything.

"Same place as last time, then." He paused. "You're beginning to disappoint me, you know. Still the best we've got, but you certainly don't make my job easier anymore."

"I'll be there in a minute," she said, and then promptly hung up. With the phone back in her pocket, she watched London fly past her.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Let me know what you thought in a review!


	8. Whittle Them Off,

Sherlock was no less busy as he had been all day than when John found him in the chemical lab of St. Bart's. He had been absent from Baker Street since before John had even woken up that morning, and there was no doubt that John had gone everywhere looking for him - an easy enough deduction if one observed the state of John's shoes and the ten unread messages on Sherlock's phone. The detective barely even glanced up when John walked through the door of the lab at just past five o'clock in the afternoon.

"You do understand the purpose of having a phone, don't you?" asked John in an exasperated sigh. He was obviously relieved to have finally located his flat mate, but also very irritated that he'd had to search at all.

"Couldn't be bothered," Sherlock muttered, eyes trained on the eyepiece of the microscope. He sniffed once and then broke away from it, moving to put together another slide with a similar-looking chemical. His phone buzzed once in his coat across the room.

John repressed the strong urge to roll his eyes at his friend. He should have guessed that that was the case - if Sherlock couldn't be bothered to pull his phone out of his own jacket in the middle of an experiment, then of course he would never exert the effort to stand up and walk across the room in the middle of one. He never distracted himself from a case. John sighed. "I've been looking for you, you know."

"Have you?" said Sherlock absently.

"Yes."

"Why?"

John stared at him for a moment, tilting his head forward and crossing his arms. Then he walked around to Sherlock's side of the table and sat down on a stool that was decidedly out of the way. "I woke up this morning and you were gone," he said. "There's no telling what that could mean when it comes to you; who knows if you had been kidnapped, or if you were chasing down that assassin unarmed. Could have been anything."

"You were worried about me," said Sherlock slowly. He put his eyes back to the microscope to view the new slide. After a second, he narrowed his eyes and removed it, then stared around at his collective work, thinking.

"I suppose so, yeah," said John. He shook his head at the conversation, seeing that it wasn't going anywhere. His curiosity got the better of him before barely a second had passed. "What have you been doing all this time, then?"

Sherlock leaned back and looked at his work more generally. "I've been testing the poison that the killer used early this morning."

John's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean by that? …Has she killed another official already?"

"Yes," said Sherlock, petulant. He turned his eyes, finally, to John.

"What happened?"

"Lestrade called me at six this morning to the new crime scene - some small abode in Surrey," Sherlock began, moving back to the various instruments on the table, shifting through them to find something. "A 58-year-old man, ex-military general, lay murdered in his bed, a nearly empty syringe stuck in his neck. He'd been killed in his sleep, going by the peaceful expression on his face and the undisturbed bedroom. I went through the entire house, and the only evidence left behind was the syringe and a dull kitchen knife left on his bedside table."

"What was the knife used for?"

Sherlock pulled two bags out of the mess on the table, one containing the used syringe, now completely empty, and the other containing the kitchen knife in question. He handed both bags to John, who looked them over with a crossed brow. "What do you think?" asked Sherlock.

John took a moment. "The knife wasn't used at all," he muttered. "It was just sitting there on the nightstand?"

Sherlock nodded, eyes narrowed.

"…Another message?"

"Precisely," said Sherlock, and then quickly began to explain again. "She leaves abstract messages with each victim after she's killed them. At first, I theorized that they were left to mock whoever investigated the crimes - the burned hair that couldn't be matched to her, but that she left on purpose, told me that. Then the blood she left on the carpet that she knew would only tell us what blood type she was and wouldn't help anything; it seemed again that she was mocking us, but it seemed different at the same time - she was also showing a sort of vulnerability, in leaving it there for us to conclude that there was a struggle in which she barely succeeded. Then she left a broken piece of glass that did not come from the victim's hotel room, with the sharp angle pointing towards the first wound. It wasn't mocking at all, rather just telling of the reason she had to die; she was shot in the lower abdomen, and had been having an affair with a government official. Easy enough to make such a connection."

"And now the dull kitchen knife," John supplied.

"Yes. It had been perfectly parallel to the victim's bed, but hadn't been used to wound or kill him."

"So then why was it there?"

Sherlock gave the ghost of a smirk. "Now that my first theory of her messages is fallible, there's only one reason she would leave the knife in such a position. She was telling me that she could have killed him brutally, but she didn't. She could have slit his throat and made a mess of a crime scene, as she had told me she'd always wanted to do when I had her alone last night, but instead she chose to let him die peacefully in his sleep by means of lethal injection."

"Why would she do that?" asked John stiffly, brows still furrowed in concentration. "She's not a merciful person - she made that very clear when she had me hostage. So why?" His hand unconsciously rubbed at his fractured rib.

Sherlock sent John a look that could have been interpreted for sympathy, but was still so very _Sherlock _that it was hard to tell. "To show that she _can_ be merciful when she wants to be. She does what she's told by whoever it is she works for, but when they give her any sort of leeway on a job, she has the ability to choose whether or not to make her victim suffer. Her choices are probably just based on whatever mood she's in at the time. This time, she didn't feel like being brutal." Sherlock gazed at the two pieces of evidence still in John's hands. "Or, she didn't want to allow any room for mistake. It's very probable that her boss is unhappy with her."

"Why?" John asked.

"It should be obvious even to you," Sherlock quipped. "She risked capture once, but only barely escaped me, and came even closer to going to jail last night. She even revealed more clues about herself to me. It's easy to imagine her superior isn't too chuffed with her right now." His brows flicked upwards at his own words before he took the pieces of evidence from John's hands and threw them on the table.

"What exactly did she reveal, then? I thought she was too careful for that," John muttered. _He_ certainly hadn't learned anything new from his encounter with the assassin. If anything, she seemed more elusive to him than ever.

"Not much in terms of incriminating evidence," the detective said quietly in reply. He stood suddenly and moved down the table, bringing back a closed bottle of a faintly brownish liquid. "I asked her what her employer's name is, and I found that even she doesn't know his name - at least not his real name - but that it isn't anyone I've heard of before, which is exciting. I found that she's also very observant, but I didn't hear enough to say one way or the other. She thinks highly of herself. She's psychotic but thinks herself merely a sociopath. Going by her text, either her first, last, or nick-name starts with a T. And," he said, raising the bottle in his hand to eye-level, but looking at John, "she's a chemist."

John raised his brows in response, wanting Sherlock to simply continue. He decided not to point out the fact that Sherlock and the assassin seemed to have more than a few similarities.

"The poison here, and even the syringe she used, were tailored specifically to her needs," Sherlock went on. "The needle was small enough that the man wouldn't feel it, and the substance was just barely lethal enough to kill him, but measurably so. It's an abnormal mix for a poison as well - traces of arsenic and potassium chloride, but laced with extracts from various poisonous plants, and each element was measured almost perfectly. All meaning that she's very knowledgeable on the subject of chemistry, and thus most likely majored in it in college. However, look."

John watched as Sherlock flicked the bottle with his finger, and the substance inside quivered. As the liquid moved, he could make out clumps in the mixture that couldn't be seen had the substance been still. As it calmed, the dots faded away. He looked up at his flat mate questioningly.

"You noticed the clumps in the poison?" asked Sherlock, seemingly excited. John affirmed him and he continued. "It's not mixed properly, and it seems that one part of the solution was added in overabundance. A good, practiced chemist, one who studied long and hard at a university, would not have made this mistake - meaning either she didn't spend her entire time in college as a chemist, or she made rather mediocre grades."

"That seems more of a broad assumption than a deduction," John said, eyeing Sherlock, who simply smirked and turned away in response.

"It's all subjective, anyway," said the taller of the two. He put the bottle down next to the microscope and resumed his spot on his stool.

They were silent for a while, both pensive.

"Tell me exactly what happened after she took you hostage," Sherlock said at length. He didn't meet the doctor's eyes, but rather trained them on the door in a faraway manner.

John stared for a moment and then swallowed, drumming for two short beats on the edge of his stool in an awkward manner. It was one thing for Sherlock Holmes to accuse John of being worried about him, and another thing entirely to see the impenetrable detective show worry for _John_, which was exactly what his question meant on the underside. Of course, he _did_ just want to know, as well. So John answered him, "She brought us up to a car. A man - the driver - got out and helped her, and we got in the backseat. While the man was getting the handcuffs off of her I tried to escape but failed - got a nice fractured rib from that. …Then she drove me to where you picked me up."

"That's it?" asked Sherlock, his eyes showing a bit of his disbelief.

"Well, there was talking that went nowhere," John said. "Didn't get anything on her. Then she took my phone."

"And did what with it?"

"I think she read through all of my texts. Then she must've sent that one to you, and then she put it back in my pocket." John paused, brow furrowing in annoyance. "And she took my gun."

"Did you hear any cracking noises while she had it?"

"Wha- my gun?"

"Your phone."

John watched his flat mate, looking for any explanation in the man's face as to what the point of the question was, but found nothing. "No, just - clicking, I suppose."

"Hm." Sherlock stood again and walked around to the other side of the table, where he began to sift through the debris. "And you were faced away from her on the seat so that she was behind you with the gun to your head?"

"Um, yeah."

Sherlock said nothing to this but continued to shift around the various items on the desk. He seemed to be looking for a certain sheet of paper, if his scrutinizing each sheet he came across before throwing it back was any indicator.

"Sherlock, why is that important?" asked John, standing. "And what are you looking for?"

"If all you heard was clicking, then all she did was look through your phone. No cracking means she didn't open up your phone and copy anything over to her own via SIM card. So whatever she wanted out of your phone wasn't too hard for her to memorize - could be anything though, so for now, it's not important," Sherlock explained, mostly engrossed in his search. After a second he pulled a sheet of paper out of a pile and began to read through it, moving back around to the side of the desk that John was standing at. "This is all the information from the cases that I've written down. I'm going to need to do a little research soon."

"What sort of research?"

"In due time, John," said Sherlock. He then folded up the paper and stuff it inside his jacket. With a small tug on his lapels to straighten himself up, he glanced once around the room before he headed towards the door and grabbed his coat and scarf. "I'm finished here for now. Come along, John."

After raising his brows at Sherlock pointedly, John did as requested and followed him down to the street to hail a cab. It was beginning to rain for a second time that day, the small droplets falling into the already-present puddles of the street and messing up whatever reflections had been in them. John watched his own reflection in the gutter become distorted before he posed another question for his colleague. "How is it that she keeps getting away from us?" he asked. "Just luck?"

"Luck is for the witless," said Sherlock. A taxi pulled up in front of them and they climbed in. "…No, I think someone else is pulling the strings here."

"You mean her boss."

Sherlock chuckled and watched his window fog up with the cab's inside heat. "Let's hope it's that simple."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** So sorry for the wait! D: Hope you guys have stuck around. After this chapter, we get to really boil this woman down. Much love! Let me know what you thought in a review.


	9. Then Throw Them In

**A/N: Sorry for the wait again. New season was very distracting, as you guys can imagine. Much love, and please tell me what you think in a review!**

* * *

><p>When she had finished off her target behind the dumpster, she pulled a square of cotton cloth out of the inside of her jacket and cleaned off her newly begotten switchblade. The new moon cast an eerie haze of light over this rather unpopulated side of London, which, despite herself, made her feel strangely on edge.<p>

She shook her head at the thought and threw the scrap of cloth into the dumpster. She wasn't a superstitious person and she never had been, so she certainly wasn't going to start spooking herself now. The night was where she felt most comfortable. Exhaustion, therefore, must have taken her over.

So she sighed and left the alleyway once everything was in order, and checked the time on her phone. 4:41 am. There wasn't quite enough time for her to walk back to her hotel to sleep, but it was so early that there wasn't much else to do. She went to her hotel anyways, not to sleep, but to make herself into a presentable pedestrian and to retrieve her purse. Coffee could make up for sleep, she figured.

The easiest way there involved walking down Baker St., though, where Sherlock Holmes and his flat mate inevitably slept. She could only hope that they weren't early risers, but took the route anyways. It was a lovely street, she had to admit, where small shops and historical, high-end apartments mingled on both sides.

Sherlock's block in particular looked to have been built in the late 1800's, but was now painted white and accompanied by a small sandwich shop. The lights in the windows were both out and the curtains drawn, meaning they were surely asleep. The woman crossed the street, going to the sidewalk next to this apartment, and took a closer look at the door as she passed. _221B_, it read in gold, with a matching knocker. She spent the next few seconds memorizing the address. Then she looked up.

A man in a black leather jacket was walking in her direction, head down, rubbing his neck as if sore, and messing with his mobile. But even in the darkness, she knew who it was, and she knew he would recognize her, too. The flat mate. John Watson.

Her adrenaline kicked up and immediately she began to look for a way to pass without confrontation. There were no alleyways nearby, no stores that were open at this hour, and no corners or doorways in which she could easily hide. And now it was too late to cross the street again. Quickly, she took out her mobile phone and put it to her ear on the side he would pass, and then hung her head so her hair covered her face.

He looked up once when her form entered his line of vision, but didn't glance for long before his eyes were on his phone once more. They passed each other. As she continued to walk in the same position, she heard him stop and turn around, as if faintly recognizing her clothes. But his steps continued towards his apartment after barely a moment.

His double-take meant he was either paranoid, or she'd just had bad luck in coming across him - either way, the coast was clear now and she could drop the act and go home.

She counted herself lucky that it hadn't been Sherlock coming home so late, because he without a doubt would have recognized her instantly. He had the best eye for observation and the cleverest mind that she had seen in her life; before meeting him, she'd thought that she was the cleverest in Great Britain, but now she was sorely beat. And she _hated_ to admit it. She took pride in her skills, because they had always been the top of the line. No one could touch her. But this detective had the potential to bring her down, she knew, and if she lost her footing in her advantage over him even the slightest bit, he could win.

For as much as it bothered her, it was thrilling.

* * *

><p>The only reasons that John had been able to convince Sherlock to leave the flat for food were that, one, they had none at Baker St. and both John and Mrs. Hudson were too tired to go shopping, and, two, Sherlock had put the case of the assassin on hiatus for as long as she did nothing obvious, and therefore this was the only time he would allow himself to do something as menial as eating. So John had temporarily kicked him out, locked up the flat, and then went to the surgery to work, which left Sherlock to find a café on his own. He chose a random direction and walked until he would come across a suitable one.<p>

The noise of an ambulance filled the air, speeding across the street one block ahead of him. Something he was used to - London was a city full of ambulances and police cars, full of sirens and car horns, full of crime and murder. He had been raised in this city, and so of course he was used to all of it, though sometimes he liked to think that he would be used to crime no matter where he grew up. Even when it was sparse and uninteresting, he belonged in the middle of it, solving the puzzles of crime and saving the innocent where possible. That was his purpose.

But he'd seen so many people in his life grow bored of their careers, no matter how much they harked that it was their purpose in life, that sometimes he had to question himself. He was prone to be bored when criminals were boring, but even in the excitement of a case, he had to be sure that he wasn't tiring of his profession. He tested himself every now and then by asking himself whether he was tired. So far the answer was always no. But here, walking down a street in the grandeur of London, looking around at the apartments and hotels and thinking about his enemies, he asked himself again, _Am I tired of what I do?_

He thought of Jim Moriarty, master criminal, the Napoleon of the modern era, who had sunk beneath Sherlock's mind, matched his intelligence, and thrown it back in his face. He thought of the nameless assassin, expert murderer, who had escaped him and fought him and sewn frustration through him again and again. He thought of the cabbie, the Chinese circus, every jealous brother, uneducated delinquent, and serial killer that he'd had to deal with throughout his cases.

…And the answer was definitely still no.

Sherlock rose out of his thoughts and looked up from the moving pavement that he'd been watching beneath his feet. Perfect timing. He spotted a small café a block away named "Apostrophe". It was a corner café that claimed to serve good coffee and healthy meals, and the two walls that sat on the sidewalk were almost entirely made of glass. Halfway down the current block, he could easily make out the attempted-modern interior design, all angles and rectangles and black and red.

Even the patrons seemed to match the café, he realized as he neared the entrance. A teenage girl sat next to the window, black leather jacket matching the leather seats, wearing red heels. The boy across from her wore rectangle glasses and a horrid jumper covered in blocky shapes in tones of black and gray. Sherlock entered the café with a sneer, continuing to observe the customers. Then he froze.

There was a woman in the corner, sitting in a booth and drinking from a large white mug. She wore a dress shirt and slacks, heels and a green scarf, and a simplistic pair of frameless glasses, but he knew that face. He knew those eyes, light hazel, that glared at people when she wasn't focused on her drink, and wouldn't keep still for too long. The assassin he'd been searching for, wearing what was most likely a disguise.

Sherlock glanced at the counter where a bored employee stood, then to the woman's table upon which only her mug and a large purse sat, and decided promptly that food was secondary - as if he could be hungry now, anyways. He took his scarf off and stuffed it in his pocket, then removed the coat and draped it over his arm; he would be staying a while.

She looked up as he approached, only a glance before sipping at her drink, but then she seemed to think a second. She looked up again, this time focusing on the man now taking the seat across from her in the booth. Her hands set the mug down gently, and her eyes did not leave his.

"Good morning," he greeted with a quick smirk.

She raised her brows at him in question and asked, politely, "Can I help you with something?"

Sherlock only stared for a moment, knowing well that she was acting but not wanting to play along. He hated when they played dumb.

She sighed, her expression changing from mild surprise to half-irritated indifference. "Well, the question still stands," she said, and then sipped at what Sherlock observed to be plain black tea. "What do you want?"

"…Asked the murdering fugitive," he enunciated slowly. "Do you really have to ask?" _Of course not,_ he thought to himself.

She set her tea down once more and then pushed it out of the way, towards her purse. Her elbows met the tabletop and she leaned forward, mouth hinting at a smirk to rival his own. "Yes, what else could you possibly want except to see me behind bars? But, Sherlock Holmes," she drawled. "Look around first. Then tell me you're here to arrest me."

"I'm not above causing a scene."

She stared for a moment, then quirked an eyebrow. "That's not what I meant. I mean the doors. The windows. The escape routes. I do hate to be so repetitive, but I'm not stupid enough to get myself caught just for wanting to change up our routine - been there already, after all. You can chase me and fight me all you want, but I can - and will - _always_ escape. You should have realized that already."

Sherlock leaned forward in his seat and laced his fingers on the table that separated them. "My friend thinks you've gotten lucky quite a lot."

"Your _friend_ suffers from a bruised ego," she countered. "His heart rules his head. Of course he thinks I merely 'got lucky'." She watched him for a moment, continuing when he showed no reaction. "But you don't agree with him, I can tell. And I agree with you. The fact is, I'm just too good - I've done this for far too long to get caught now."

"Oh?" said Sherlock quietly. "And exactly how long have you been killing people?"

She smiled. "No."

His brows crossed for a moment before he spoke. "You meant you've escaped arrest for too long. Not _just _a murderer, then."

She continued to smile for a second before it faded. "Breaking and entering, vandalism, stealing, trespassing - it all comes with the job, as you can imagine."

"Define that job."

She smiled again, the amusement reaching her eyes this time. "You don't actually think you can find out so easily, do you?"

He smirked. "No."

"I've heard all about you, you know," she said then. "I've done my research, talked to people. I've heard what you can do - you can tell someone's life story with a glance."

"I can," he said.

"…But you don't like to use your talents _just _to show off," she said, then amended: "At least, not all the time."

"Hm."

"Show off, then."

He raised an eyebrow. Then he glanced over her, lingering on her attire, hands, and face. His brow furrowed. She was nearly a blank slate: no tan lines, clean hands and sleeves, no jewelry, and dressing in a way that didn't reflect her at all. He spoke anyways. "Without drawing on previously learned information, I can tell you're unarmed but unconcerned about it. Simple body language. You feel uncomfortable in the clothes you're wearing and would instead prefer more practical dress. They're all expensive brands, but you've barely a sense of fashion, as even for a premeditated disguise, your scarf doesn't match anything that you're wearing. Also, you're hiding your neck, but not as if you're ashamed of anything - more like you're trying hard not to be recognized."

Her face didn't change. "That's all very simple, though. You're not telling me anything I couldn't have seen in someone else."

"Don't flatter yourself. How can you see when you don't look?"

"What do you mean by that?"

"You only busy your mind with what interests _you._ Most of the time you only focus on the task at hand. Unlike me, you assume. You don't deduce or observe."

"…Am I that good at hiding myself, or are you just not as good as they say?" she said, as if she hadn't even been listening to the previous statements. "I'd like to think it's just me."

"Changing the subject, I see."

"Being diagnosed is boring," she replied. "They either tell you what you already know, or assume a wrong idea because they weren't paying attention. So don't talk about how you think I see things or think about things. It's not interesting."

He raised an eyebrow. "You mean you're tired of it; you're speaking from experience. You've been to psychiatrists, then, in your lifetime."

She let that go without a verbal answer, but rather raised a brow back at him. Her eyes still displayed her lack of interest in the subject.

He leaned back and filed that thought away for later inspection. "Before this goes anymore off topic, I've a question for you."

"You've a lot of questions for me," she said, "but they can wait a moment. I came here to eat, but somehow ended up with tea instead. Excuse me." So saying, she stood and walked to the counter.

There, she took her time to make a decision on what to eat, and when she finally did order, the employee took his time to get the food to her. She returned with a maple scone and began to break it apart.

"Indecisive?" said Sherlock, face portraying his lack of amusement.

"No," she said without thinking. "…You had a question."

He waited until she made eye contact with him again, at which point her eyes ceased to leave for a long time, even as she ate. "Does the name 'Moriarty' sound familiar to you?"

"Only because you've asked me this before," she said. "Before I took your friend hostage. You asked if the man I work for had that name."

"And you never answered."

"Hm," she said, clearly not remembering. "Well, the answer is no."

"You've _never_ heard it before?"

"No," she said again, making it clear that she didn't like to be asked the same thing twice. "I don't pay much attention to names until I have to use them more than once. Yours, for instance, I know well. Your friend's, too."

"You don't even know your own boss's name."

"We're very protective. Don't like to risk getting turned in." She thought a moment. "Who is this Moriarty? I'm guessing he's not on your side if you associate him with me."

Sherlock felt his face go blank, much the way one's does in the preparation of hearing bad news. He thought of a way to put his enemy into words without sounding like an utter lunatic. "…Imagine, if you will, a Black Widow that has spun a web so intricate that it controls every thread therein, and every single fly in its vicinity. It is, however, impossible to find, and so silent that almost nothing knows it's there. …Moriarty is the spider, and London is the web." Sherlock grimaced at the table. He tried again. "…He's the mastermind behind all of the crime in this city. Possibly the whole of Great Britain."

"That's all you can tell me?"

"…"

"He sounds interesting," she said simply, but as though he didn't seem interesting at all. The scone was half gone by now, and she moved on. "So is this just what you do, Sherlock?"

He paused; not because the question had caught him off guard, but because the use of his name had. This murderer used it as though they were so familiar with each other - as if they weren't ultimately trying to stop one another, but instead were friends. Brow furrowed, he let it slide; surely it wasn't such a big deal. "You mean have breakfast with criminals?"

"No," she said with a short chuckle. "Chase bad people. Save lives. Use your big brain to save the day. All that."

"I suppose it is what I do."

"You suppose?"

"I wouldn't have put it in so many words," he replied.

She finished her scone and leaned back. "Well, we are different, then. If you like to solve problems, then I like to make them."

"And that's what you would call what it is you do?" asked Sherlock. "Making problems?"

"No, not in so many words," she said, then smiled. "I can shorten it to about two."

"I imagine so." He continued to watch her. She tilted her head until a glare on her glasses prevented him from seeing her eyes, and he noted to himself that the glasses weren't fake, and were in fact a prescription strong enough that she would need to wear them all the time. She wore contacts, then. Her eyes became visible again, but they were down in her lap, as if she were texting on her phone. They snapped up, so Sherlock spoke. "Are there other… 'employees' in your business?"

She looked at him blankly and did not answer.

He raised a brow at her.

"I don't know why you bother to interrogate me. I hate answering stupid questions, and you don't even need an answer. That's what you do, isn't it? Look for answers on your own, by your own devices?" She seemed genuinely irritated. "And you know, while I'm holding on to my irritation, I'd like you to know that I am pissed at you."

"Is that so?"

"Yes," she responded matter-of-factly. "I lost my two best knives because of you. You disarmed them from me the last time I saw you and when I went back to get them, they were gone. And I'll have you know that that KA-BAR was a gift from my father. So thanks for that."

Sherlock smiled sarcastically. "You're very welcome - though surely it won't be too difficult to get your hands on a new one."

"Who's to say I haven't already?" she countered. "That doesn't make me any less pissed. I'd had that one for a while, it was perfect - worn to my hand and everything. Never disappointed. Not to mention that I lost five contracts for being without any knives for a week."

"Five," he remarked quietly. Five "contracts" in one week meant at least five people _dead_ in the space of seven days, and that was a ratio that did not make him feel comfortable at all. He wasn't John, who would've balked and sputtered at such a statement, but that didn't make it any less stunning - after all, if that's how many she missed in a week, then how many had she completed in a month? since he'd met her? since she'd first started killing?

He felt his insides cool and tighten at the thought. "How many have you killed?" he muttered.

She smirked, having seen the subtle transformations in his face. "I'm sure you have a good idea. If it keeps you from panicking," she said, picking up her purse and moving to leave, "that was one of the faster weeks we've had in a while. And then think of all the people this _Moriarty _person must have killed. I can't be much worse, surely." Her brows flicked upwards at him before she stood.

"Leaving so soon?" Sherlock asked. He watched her carefully.

"Yes, unfortunately." Her face mocked hurt. "Errands to run, typing to do, that sort of thing." She watched him for a moment, and then turned to leave. "It was nice to see you, Sherlock Holmes."

"You, too," he returned, as he watched the glass door swing shut behind her, watched her figure retreat until it was gone.

Then he smirked to himself and pulled a small, leather-cased booklet out from under his folded coat.


	10. The Feral Child

Upon his arrival back at Baker Street, Sherlock did not hesitate to get to work. He opened John's laptop - John's was faster - and went immediately to a reliable search engine. Then he took out the small leather-bound booklet that he'd acquired at the café, and opened it to the first page, where a blonde, familiar-looking woman's picture stared back at him. He made use of the search engine for the next thirty minutes by typing in its contents:

"_Surname: Ross_

_Given Name: Thalia_

_Nationality: British Citizen_

_Date of Birth: 19 Jan 77"_

The inside pages, he noticed after he was done with the laptop, contained a number of stamps, where three different ones showed up periodically, Ireland among them. The very last page contained this:

"_If this passport is lost, return to this(these) emergency contact(s):_

_Mr. James and Karen Ross"_

…under which was a residential address in Guildford. He scrutinized the passport more closely for a moment, deciding whether or not to try running DNA tests on it at St. Bart's - but considering that he now had her name, age, and an address for what was most likely her parents' house, he figured he had enough of a basic identity. He could always get his brother to run background checks later.

For now, he texted John.

_Her name is Thalia Ross. SH_

John replied almost immediately.

_The assassin? Really?_

Sherlock didn't reply, as it didn't warrant an answer. He set the passport on the desk, before taking the seat in front of it. He studied it until John texted back again.

_How do you know?_

Sherlock smirked at himself.

_Got her passport. SH_

There were a few moments of silence where Sherlock imagined him slowly processing the information. He savored it.

_How?_

Sherlock chose not to answer, knowing what his applied methods would insinuate. He had, after all, let go of a murderer who killed an average of five people a week. Lestrade would have his head.

_Right. I'm on my way._

He replied immediately.

_No need to leave the surgery, John. I'll still be here when your shift is over. SH_

Sherlock stood, still in his coat and scarf, and stuffed the passport back in his pocket. He wasn't lying to John; he would be at 221B when he returned. Between Point A and Point B, however, he couldn't promise the same.

_Fine. Have you told Lestrade?_

He'd expected that, of course, but it still made him pause in walking out of the flat. He didn't plan on telling Lestrade - at least not yet. This case was different from the others in that he couldn't simply sack the criminal based on her mistakes or on the evidence she left behind, because she was too good at her job. He was sure that she had killed plenty of people where the evidence she left made it all so obvious (every killer starts somewhere, right?), but those murders had been "solved" and tossed so long ago that they didn't matter anymore. The only incriminating evidence he could pull to have her arrested would be finding the base of operations of whatever her business was, or catching her DNA on a committed murder, which she had gone to great measures to ensure did not happen.

But now he had her passport. This gave him almost everything, assuming she hadn't lied or had her permanent files deleted. His course of action now was, first, to go to the only given address on the passport and extract whatever information he possibly could from its residents, and then, if that didn't work, to convince Mycroft to run background checks on the name "Thalia Ross".

_Sherlock, please tell me you told the police you found a murderer's passport._

Sherlock sighed and let John go unanswered yet again. He would figure out eventually what the silence meant.

It was still fairly early when Sherlock arrived in Guildford an hour later, and considering how badly he and John needed the money, this meant he had, maybe, five hours to take care of business before he needed to beat John home. He figured he could be done in under two hours - that is, if one of the "emergency contacts" was actually home, or if the contact was completely made up. But he didn't expect either to be the case; it was 11 am on a Saturday - the only people not at home were ones like John, who were tired of their flat mates and in desperate need of money.

Guildford was a pretty little country town, not unlike the other country towns surrounding London. The buildings were old but kept up, and the town prided itself in whatever little history it had. It was relatively easy to find one's way around, though, and Sherlock was able to walk to the passport's address in very little time at all.

It was a large, white, two-story house with a long pathway and a trimmed yard. There was a shiny black car on one side of the driveway, but recently-made tire tracks on the other side told him there was another car that was currently absent. It wasn't hard to tell from all of it that the owners had a substantial amount of money. None of this surprised him.

The research he had done online before coming to Guildford had told him that James and Karen Ross were indeed the assassin's - _Thalia's_ - parents. James Ross was employed as a doctor in the local hospital, and Karen Ross stayed at home and maintained the house, though she used to be a journalism professor. All this and more he had found hacking into the less-secret files of various psychiatrists that had had Thalia Ross as a patient. In thirty minutes, it was all he could manage to find without being too illegal, but it was more than enough.

He walked up the path to the front door, noting the value of the knocker and the like, before knocking on the door. He stood straight and cleared his throat, and then the door opened.

A woman, not much older than fifty, stood in the doorframe in a jumper and khaki slacks, with an apron hanging from her arm. Her demeanor was overall kind and simple, and not at all suspicious of him. She merely regarded Sherlock in a mildly surprised manner. "Hello," she said. "Can I help you?"

"Mrs. Ross, is it?" asked Sherlock, easy but business-like.

"Yes." She absently folded the apron in her arms.

"You remember Dr. Lawrence?" asked Sherlock. The name belonged to Thalia's last psychiatrist, who was well known for checking up on his patients often. "Dr. Lawrence Foley?"

"Yes, I do," said Mrs. Ross with a nod. "Are you his assistant? I'm not sure I remember you…"

"I'm his new assistant, yes. I'm Dr. Bancroft," said Sherlock. He'd thought the disguise would be a long shot, but the woman's simple-mindedness more than made up for any faults he had in it. He almost smirked at how easy it all was. "Just checking up on Thalia. "

"Ah, well, come inside, won't you?" asked Mrs. Ross with a smile, opening wide the door and allowing Sherlock into the foyer. She led him to the living room and gestured to a chair. "Would you like some tea? The kettle's already boiled."

"Tea would be lovely, yes," said Sherlock. He looked around the room once, noting the mild paintings on the walls and the high-end furniture. Their medical careers certainly had them well off, though he wondered how good this fluttery woman had to have been as a professor in her days, considering how easily she trusted that this stranger was merely making a house call unannounced from a psychiatrist they hadn't employed in over five years. It had definitely been a stretch of a story to tell, though Sherlock hadn't had a doubt in his abilities to pull it off.

Mrs. Ross came back from the kitchen with a silver tea tray in hand. She set it down on the coffee table in front of Sherlock, poured them both a cup, and sat on the settee on the other side of the table. She regarded him kindly. "Dr. Lawrence used to call to make his check-ups," she said, not in a way that she was suspicious, but just as passing conversation. "I've always said how much better it would be to make house calls. Phones are so impersonal, I think."

Sherlock nodded. "The doctor is trying it out," he explained and then chuckled, "but of course he's having me do the test runs before he will."

Mrs. Ross laughed and then sipped her tea. "He was very practical about everything, I remember…"

"Yes, and still is," he said curtly. "So, on to this check-up, I think…. I'm guessing Thalia's not around, present?"

"Oh, no," she said with a sad smile. "No, she lives in London. Moved out there to go to college and never came back." She laughed, the sound tinkling in the air similar to her china cups on their saucers. Her voice spoke of her age.

"What did she go to college for?" asked Sherlock. He took out a small pad of paper and a pen, more for show than to actually write down anything he'd find useful. He only needed his mind to have this conversation memorized. "I'm afraid Dr. Lawrence didn't send me with her file…"

"Oh," she said, "she went to study chemistry. Wanted to be like her dad, I think, but not exactly, you know? Or maybe he just steered her that way…"

"She spent a lot of time with him?"

Mrs. Ross gave another sad smile. "Her father and I split up when she was twelve, and she went to live with him until we came back together. She was seventeen, I think, when James and I reconciled."

"That's right," said Sherlock. "I remember seeing that in the file. What is it she does now?" He refrained from holding his breath, knowing how unlikely it was that Thalia would have revealed her true occupation to her parents.

"She's an accountant for a medical clinic somewhere in London," she explained, and there was no doubt that she believed it. "She doesn't like to talk about it much. I think maybe she's disappointed that she never made it as a chemist. Her grades just weren't up to par, you know, and she had such trouble in school." Her brow creased as she remembered, and pain fluttered in her eyes for a moment before she looked back up at her guest.

"What sort of trouble, Mrs. Ross?" He attempted to sound sympathetic.

Only then did she seem confused. "Dr. Lawrence didn't tell you that much? Why, that's why she saw him so much to begin with."

"I am sorry," said Sherlock. "I only started last week. I've been very busy with his current patient's files, you understand."

"Oh, yes, that makes sense," she said, and waved it off. She cleared her throat and stared into her teacup, remembering. "Well, she'd always been a little _different_, to put it plainly. It's hard to explain how, when she was a child…"

_Different, indeed, _he thought. _I can only imagine. _Sherlock leaned forward almost imperceptibly, listening attentively to the way she described her troublesome daughter. Inflection, sometimes, was everything, even when the speaker was as much an open book as Mrs. Ross.

"…but I think, subconsciously, we sort of _knew_," she explained. "She spent a lot of time outside, but never played with any of the other kids. She often told us they made her angry or nervous, and avoided them. She came across a dead bird one time-" here she took a sip of tea and grimaced "-and, well, _dissected_ it, of all things. It got a bit worse from there - it wasn't the only time we found her doing something like that."

"She dissected other animals after that, you mean?" asked Sherlock, only asking to hear her say it.

She hesitated. "…Yes. Cats and dogs. A snake. That was when we started taking her to psychiatrists; her teachers noticed how… _odd_ she was." She took another sip, and he copied the action. Then she put her cup and saucer down. "We always tried everything they suggested to help her, but I don't think any of it worked. We even transferred her to a private elementary school, which, admittedly, didn't do her any better. And it just went downhill when she started high school."

"How do you mean?" asked Sherlock. He wrote down some false notes.

"You see, she never made _friends_," Mrs. Ross responded. "But she met some people - some awful people, I think - and suddenly she was going out almost every night and she would be gone all weekend, sometimes, telling us that she was going out with 'friends.' But then she would report to her psychiatrists that she 'hated people in general' and had no interest in relationships. We'd thought at first that it was all a good thing, that maybe she'd actually made some friends but was too shy to say anything about them. Then, one night, we got a call from the hospital, who told us our daughter had severe alcohol poisoning coupled with an intake of some mysterious narcotic solution."

His brows rose in honest surprise, but he recovered quickly. "Did it stop after that?"

Mrs. Ross shook her head sadly. "It continued to get worse, and it seemed that nothing we did to help worked," she confessed. "Her psychiatrists said it had nothing to do with her father and I, and our divorce, but that she just had something in her brain…" She paused, putting her hand to her chest, the thought obviously causing her some pain. "Something wrong in her brain that made her… 'crave self-destruction,' as they put it." She sniffed. "Later they told us it wasn't just that, but all _kinds_ of destruction, only she didn't indulge in causing any… pain… to others.

"It became almost a regular routine. Some weekends she would need the emergency room, others she would come home in the wee hours of morning and sleep, literally, for an entire day. Some days she wouldn't eat, others she wouldn't speak, but then sometimes she would read and study all day. She kept her grades near perfect, but she did all kinds of horrible things…. She got into fights a lot, too. Terrible fights, often with boys."

"How did her school take her?" he asked, jotting down more notes.

"Expelled her, suspended her," she admitted, frowning. "We had her transfer schools quite a lot - I think close to five times, as a teenager. Private schools were better for her as a teenager than when she was a child, but there were always the same problems."

"So she had alcohol and drinking problems," Sherlock summarized, "tendencies toward violence, and severe social difficulties. Was there any promiscuity, or anything along those lines?"

She shook her head, her brows crossing. "No, of course not," she told him. "She never wanted any sort of relationship, you remember."

Idly, Sherlock considered informing her that one didn't have to want relationships to want sex. He decided against it without much thought.

"It's just… everything else. Thalia was troubled. Very troubled."

"I see," he said. "Did he behavior eventually stop?"

"Yes, thankfully, in college," she told him with a smile. Her muscles seemed to relax, as if she was glad to be done with the previous conversation. "I'm not sure why or how, but as soon as she moved off to the university, Dr. Lawrence said that she turned it off like a light switch and just thrived. Her grades weren't as good as they were in high school, but college is much harder, of course, so it's all understandable. She seems perfectly fine these days."

Sherlock almost asked, _How much does she tell you? _but thought better of it and revised it. "Does she stay in touch a lot?"

"For her, yes," she said. "She's never been talkative, but she visits every now and then, and we'll talk on the telephone."

"She's, I think, 29 years old, now, right?"

"Yes."

He nodded. "Have there been any relapses in the past ten years? Any odd occurrences?" he asked, playing up the "check-up" act.

"Not… really," she said, then frowned. "I don't think so, anyways. She stopped seeing her last psychiatrist, Dr. Lawrence, you know, when she graduated college."

"Right," he said, and nodded. "Has she ever asked for any peculiar gifts for her birthday, or for Christmas?"

"Well, she asked for some special knife one year, and then an expensive sort of switchblade the next," she conceded. "But living in London, I can certainly understand why. It's so dangerous up there. So, really, I don't suppose those are too peculiar."

"Hm." He nodded, and then took a final sip of his tea. "Well, I'd better be on my way - I've got two more patients to check up on this afternoon. Er, before I go, though - her files don't list her current address in London. Do you mind if I have that for the records?"

"Yes, of course," she said, smiling. She stood as he did. "She's in the Berkeley Hotel, in Belgravia. Room… hmm… I think it's room 227. Yes, that's it."

Sherlock nodded and wrote it down before putting the paper and pen away. "Thank you for your time, Mrs. Ross. It was a pleasure to meet you. I'll just see myself out." He flashed her a smile and left as she thanked him in return.

He made his way back through Guildford, and caught a bus back to London. He let his mind drift to other things, deciding he would need a nicotine patch before he would process each bit of information gleaned, and before he chose a course of action to take to finally catch this assassin.

_Thalia_. He rolled the name around in his head for a moment, then shook away the thought and wondered what he and John would do for dinner that night.


	11. Game

"Sherlock!"

He awoke slowly, having slept a full night for the first time in weeks. His robe was in a strangling disarray about him, and it took him a good twenty or so seconds merely to disengage himself from it. He sat up and yawned heavily, simultaneously shivering from a decided draft and suddenly wondering why he was awake at all.

"_Sherlock!"_

He found himself then leaping out of bed and taking the few long strides into the main room of the flat, to where John's voice called him. The doctor was standing, very still, in front of the desk and left window - the latter of which was all the way open and letting in the draft he had felt in bed. This struck him as odd. It was in the middle of winter; why would John have opened the window?

John was still staring at the desk when Sherlock moved to close it.

"Wait, Sherlock," said John quietly. "That's evidence."

Sherlock raised a brow and, without comment, went instead to examine what had his friend so enthralled.

It was a scrap of white paper, haphazardly torn from what Sherlock recognized to be one of his biographical journals. The journal in question was now on the floor, as if thrown, on the opposite side of the room from the shelf it belonged in. The scrap on the desk, upon closer inspection, was a note. In a spidery mix of print and cursive, and in the black ink of his favoured pen, was written this:

"_Surely the game is _

_hardly worth the candle._

_- Thalia"_

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, before he realized why she had left the note in this particular spot on the desk. Her passport, which he had left there only the night before, was gone. He looked around the room for a moment, but it was indeed the only thing missing from the flat, and nothing had been planted either. He frowned.

"Sherlock," said John, still quiet, thoughtful. "She broke into our flat while we were sleeping."

"Yes, John," Sherlock retorted. "I can see that."

"And all she did was leave a note?" He turned to the detective with a crossed brow.

"Obviously."

"Does none of this worry you at all?"

Sherlock gave him a sideways glance before going to the open window and looking down. He could easily distinguish her route into and out of the flat.

"Sherlock."

The detective smirked to himself, dimly noting that the only evidence of her being there were the note, the open window, and the missing passport, at the same time that he thought through her situation. The only reason that a person would notice their passport going missing is if they needed to use it, even if they were someone who traveled so often that they kept it close to them, as she had kept it in her purse. So she was traveling soon.

"_Sherlock."_

He whirled around to look at John, annoyed at the interruptions. "What?" he snapped.

John gave him a level look and folded his arms. "Please tell me you're worried about this," he insisted.

"Worried about what?"

John's face betrayed a flash of anger. "Christ, Sherlock - I know you're rather acclimatized to danger, but this is our _home, _for God's sake!" John's arms fell from their previous position and gestured to the window. "How could this not worry you? She _broke into our flat _while we were _sleeping_, and neither of us even suspected!"

Sherlock stared.

"She could have killed us, Sherlock," said John firmly. "She could have killed us in our sleep. _Please_ tell me-"

"I'm perfectly aware of all that, John," said Sherlock, suddenly detached from the conversation. "Yet, we're fine."

Now John stared. He seemed to look at Sherlock in a way that one might look at a two-headed dog, and it was all he could do for the next moment before he spoke. "Sherlock, listen to me," he said, and the other complied. "You've got to stop this. Take this warning here." He picked up the note. "And just - just let her be until we can catch her."

"That's what I've been doing, John-"

"No, it's not," he interrupted, his eyes demanding. "No - I may be an idiot to your standards but it doesn't take much of a brain to figure out that you've been doing a lot more than what you tell me. You've been running around her and doing all this research on her - I know you have, don't give me that look - and she knows it, too."

Sherlock returned to the window and glanced out at the street. There was a long moment where neither one of them said anything.

But suddenly, as if shattering a pane of glass, John proclaimed, "I think you're obsessed."

Instantly Sherlock shut his eyes to Baker Street and thought, forcibly, _No. _Not obsessed - determined. The game was more than worth the candle; if there was anything at all that could incriminate her, he would find it, _had_ to find it, and he would put a stop to her and her little business. There had to be something, and he was _so close_ to catching it that he could feel it (though really he felt that he was just taking shots in the dark.) But it wasn't obsession. He knew the difference. He would solve this puzzle.

"No," he voiced. He walked up to John and snatched the note away before heading into the kitchen to analyze it.

He followed him. "Just give it a rest, Sherlock," John said, almost pleading. "We can-"

"When I'm done with this," said Sherlock, motioning mildly to the microscope and note, "then I'll stop. We'll let her think we've given up and wait for her to mess up. Alright?"

John nodded after a minute.

Sherlock sighed.

* * *

><p>She woke up, sore all over. This wasn't right, though - she hadn't had a job since she'd returned from the one in Ireland the previous morning, so why was she sore? She remembered messaging her boss to give her a new assignment, but he didn't answer. Nor did he answer her texts or phone calls, even though his status on IM told her he was online. It was strange, but she'd blown it off and went to sleep. Yet, her back throbbed, her neck was stiff, and her shoulders ached.<p>

And it was dark. She could tell even with her eyes closed that there was a little light flooding in from the window, but that was it. She was sitting with her arms in her lap in a soft chair. When she tried to pick one arm up to run her hand over her face, she realized she couldn't. Handcuffs.

Thalia opened her eyes.

It was her hotel room, with the giant bed and all. But one abnormality revealed itself almost immediately: she wasn't alone.

"Oh! You're awake," said the other person in the room. Male. Something unsettling in his voice. Too casual. "Did you sleep well?"

She noted dimly that the man was hiding in the shadows in the corner furthest away from her - dramatic, theatric.

"I'm sure you had a very restful sleep, all things considered," said the man. It clicked in her head that he had an Irish accent. It also clicked that he was indicating that he had drugged her enough to move her without waking her. "I suppose you're expecting me to introduce myself."

She didn't reply. She was fully awake now - any person who knew how to play with sedatives instantly put her on edge.

The man stepped out of the corner, moving to where the moonlight from the window shone on his face. His features by themselves were innocent-looking - baby-like, even - but it was already apparent that he was far from innocent. Something in his eyes spoke of an evil that she was not accustomed to. "Jim Moriarty," he declared, smirking and staring into her eyes unblinkingly. "I'm your boss. Or, rather, the boss of your boss. It's all a little convoluted."

She stared back at him.

"Never heard of me before?" he asked, still casually, as he began to saunter in her direction. She kept the answer to his query to herself. "_Good. _That means Burns did his job."

_Burns_. Her boss. She did not let her eyes leave the man before her, perpetually wary of his potential.

Moriarty smirked at her. "I drugged you, yes," he admitted. "Not so much for practicality, but more to get your attention. You're a chemist, after all."

Her brow furrowed unintentionally.

He lifted his brows in response, now standing directly in front of her. "Well, _used_ to be. Now you do my dirty work." His reptilian smile was almost giddy.

She started to shake her head, but stopped herself.

He didn't miss it. His smile fell. "Yes, you do. Your - _my_, actually - little business got too much attention; too many jobs, too much incompetence. Don't worry, though, I don't blame _you_. I knew Sherlock would find out eventually."

Her eyes narrowed.

"So I shut it down. Got rid of Burns and took care of all the other itty bitty workers. Now you're the only one left."

_The entire company, gone. _She swallowed, then finally she spoke, her voice hoarse with sleep. "What do you want?"

"Blood."

"Mine?"

"Nah," he said in a mock-American accent, his head oscillating slightly from side to side and a sinister smile gracing his features. She wondered, this time, if he was just being overly dramatic or he was acting like his natural self. "Everyone else's."

She stared. It was hard to think properly when the sedative hadn't worn off yet. "You mean… you want to hire me?"

He shrugged and stepped closer until his trousers grazed her knees. When he spoke, his voice was very nearly sing-song. "You've worked for me all along, really - all that would change is who you take orders from and how often." His head tilted to the side and his eyes were energetic. "Better pay, too. Unfortunately, there will also be worse consequences for failure. Whaddaya say, hm?"

He smiled sweetly, but she knew what it all really meant. She couldn't refuse the offer or he would have to kill her; she'd taken the risk before on hiring new recruits for the assassination business. One could only tell a person so much before their refusal would become a death sentence - otherwise the whole company is jeopardized. It was never anything personal, just the mechanics of an economic machine, but being on the receiving end of the deal made it almost feel personal.

But it was a gamble on the employer's part, too. If the potential recruit could figure out their real options - new job or death - then it created the possibility of disloyalty and betrayal once in the new job. Only the truly powerful employers could take that risk. If disloyalty and betrayal became an issue, most would threaten them with more death, which eventually becomes inefficient all the way around. A good employer, however, knows how to balance his threats. Betrayal with them becomes a game of Let's Find Out What's Worse Than Death.

Moriarty gave her the impression of being the latter type. And, like any person in her line of work would, she immensely respected that as much as she feared it. She swallowed down her fear, however, as it was pointless. He wanted her alive.

He raised one delicate brow and sighed, "You should know that I'm _wonderfully_ impatient."

She swallowed and shifted in her seat. "Same work?"

"With adjustments," he sang.

She nodded. "I'll take it," she conceded. And she decided that she would treat it as she treated her last occupation - as if anything less than perfection was failure. It sounded fun, anyways.

The reptilian grin grew wider still. "_Good._ Your first assignment is in your top drawer. When you've finished it, find _Sam_. Good luck!" He gave a nod in the direction of the drawer in question and then promptly turned to leave.

As her door shut behind him, she realized this was her first test of ability - she was still handcuffed, and the chain was attached to the chair.


End file.
